


Blindside

by GilShalos1



Series: Sidelong Glances [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Addiction, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complete, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Oral Sex, Past Addiction, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 111
Words: 227,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corypheus is dead, safety and security are restored to Thedas, and the Inquisition has new work to do ... After the events of "Side by Side", new challenges await. Contains spoilers for "Side by Side", "By His Side", and of course the game itself. From various viewpoints, but mostly the two main characters. Also, smut. Lots of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On The Wall - Killeen

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for safety, in case references to "By His Side" occur.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen reflects

Killeen Hanmount sat on the wall overlooking Skyhold’s upper courtyard, eating an apple contemplatively, entirely pleased with life.

 

The apple, tart and juicy and delicious, was definitely part of her contentment. The onset of harvest season, and the resulting bountiful produce making its way to Skyhold, had gone a long way toward reconciling her to the increasingly chill breezes of winter.

 

As had the heavy fur cloak that currently weighed down her shoulders. She smiled to herself, running her hand over the thick, luxurious — _and mercifully undyed_ — pelt of the great bear Cullen had killed. Smiled, too, at the memory of his clearly rehearsed, yet still stammered, words as he’d presented it to her: _I promise to, um. Always keep you warm._

 

The apple and the cloak and the clear fall day added to Killeen’s sense of well-being, but its real source was Cullen Stanton Rutherford and the constant, astonishing delight of his love for her.

 

She had imagined, when she had allowed herself, what it would be like if he kissed her, even made love to her, and _Maker_ , the reality had exceeded all expectations — but over the past two months she’d found that it was, after all, the things she’d never needed to imagine that filled her with a wild, singing happiness, that had her smiling for no reason and humming as she went about her daily tasks. He had, after all, _always_ known exactly how she took her tea, and yet every time he stirred in precisely the right amount of honey Killeen wanted to laugh with delight, every time he put in her hand precisely the report or quill or sealing wax she was about to reach for made her want to sing, every time he answered a question she had not had time to ask made her absolutely, utterly certain that she could never, no matter how long she lived, be as happy as she was right at that moment.

 

As if summoned by her thoughts, she heard his footsteps behind her. His hands brushed her shoulders, and then his arms were around her waist, his chin in her shoulder. “Three Chantry sisters die and find themselves before the Maker,” he said.

 

Killeen sighed. “It’s _four_ Chantry sisters, Cullen. _Four_ Chantry sisters die and find themselves before the Maker.”

 

Obediently, he started again. “Four Chantry sisters, who haven’t been true to their vows, die and —”

 

“No! Now you’ve ruined it!”

 

“But it doesn’t make any sense if they were well-behaved,” he protested.

 

“Yes, but you don’t _say_ that right at the —” She felt him laugh silently. “You’re teasing me.”

 

“Possibly,” he conceded. “Are you busy?”

 

“Well, I’ve got this apple to eat,” Killeen said casually.

 

He pressed a kiss to her neck. “Do you think it will take you long? Because I’ve got an hour until my next meeting and I could tease you a little more, if you’d like.”

 

Killeen pretended to consider, although she knew he could feel the way her limbs had loosened and her pulse had begun to race at his words. She flicked her apple-core into the bushes by the tavern where she’d seen Scout Harding and Sutherland disappear ten minutes earlier, smiled to see the sudden brief rustle of the leaves. “I think I could free up some time.”

 

As she followed him back to his office, the breeze ruffling the thick fur of her cloak, Killeen realised she was grinning like a fool again.

 

_Yes. Life is definitely good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to take longer to write than the previous stories, so do talk amongst yourselves during delays in transmission! And feel free to make suggestions - I can't promise to use them all, but often things readers say spark ideas.


	2. In The Loft - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which assumptions are proved false

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is a completely anachronistic quote in here. Just pretend it was something a Theodosian queen said, instead of an English one.

_Life_ , Cullen thought as he watched Kill settle her cuirass and shrug her shoulders twice, _is definitely good._

 

He still woke each morning with a sense of wonder to find her in his arms, legs twined with his, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder — still felt delighted disbelief each time she muttered a complaint about the breeze through the gap in the wall and heaved the blankets higher over both of them, encouraging him with lips and hands to raise the temperature.

 

Still thanked the Maker and Andraste to see her strong and healthy body as she rose from his bed.

 

Kill ducked her chin to her shoulder and tugged at her spaulder lacing and Cullen stretched out a hand. “Come here. Let me get that.”

 

“I’ll forget how to dress myself soon,” Kill said, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over to bring the recalcitrant lacing within his reach.

 

“If you were a chevalier or a knight you’d have a squire to do this for you,” Cullen pointed out, tightening the fastening. “Other side.”

 

She turned, grinning. “If I were a chevalier or a knight I’d have to worry about Sera stealing my breeches.”

 

Cullen pretended to give that serious consideration as he laced her other shoulder, checked the set of her gorget. “Still not seeing a problem,” he said gravely, and Kill snorted.

 

“Speaking of breeches, shouldn’t you put yours on?" She gave him a glance that heated his cheeks. "Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but her Worship might consider you a little under-dressed for the War Room.”

 

He sighed. “Yes.” And then, impulsively. “Let’s run away somewhere.”

 

“And leave all this?” Kill said dryly, with a glance at the still-unrepaired gaps in the wall and roof.

 

“Yes. We could go … anywhere. Back to Kirkwall. Denerim.”

 

“Swords for hire?” Her voice held a hint of distaste — mercenaries were often only one short step up from outright bandits.

 

“Not necessarily,” Cullen said. He rolled out of bed and started hunting for his clothes.

 

“Oh, hang up our swords and go keep nugs in Crestwood?”

 

He blinked. “Nugs?”

 

Kill tossed his shirt to him. “Rams. Druffalo. Anything. Can you see me, herding livestock? Or learning a craft, at my age?”

 

“No,” Cullen said, smiling at the mental image. “Not really. But there are other things. Local administration, merchants … ”

 

Kill made a rude gesture. “ _That_ for your desk job. I’m a soldier, same as you. However many times who I’m soldiering for changes, _that_ never will.”

 

He pulled on his shirt and breeches, then his arming doublet. “You’ll have to stop, some time.”

 

“We’ll _both_ have to stop, sometime.” Kill held his cuirass ready for him and he ducked to let her slip it over his head. “You can fit all the fifty-year-old line fighters in Thedas in one bathtub. And _you’ll_ be fifty before _me_.”

 

“Yes, but you …” He hesitated, with the sense that the conversation was sliding out of control.

 

“Have but the body of a weak and feeble woman?” Kill said, an edge to her voice. “Come down to the training yard later and see.”

 

“There _are_ differences,” Cullen protested. “When — that is, you won’t be able to keep fighting when you’re, well. Expecting.”

 

A moment’s incomprehension and then sudden, utter shock on Kill’s face. “Cullen —” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed, and tried again. “Cullen, that’s not …”

 

He realised it wasn’t something they’d discussed yet; realised too that he'd been assuming that discussion would be about  _when_ rather than  _if_. “You don’t want …?”

 

“ _Cullen_.” She closed her eyes a moment, and when she opened them again her expression was bleak. “I thought you knew. I _can’t_.”

 

He struggled to understand. “Because of the — the damage, from Haven?” The topic they still danced around, her pain, his fault, slowly coming closer to the point where they might, perhaps, confront it head-on.

 

“No. I’ve never _been_ — I went to the healer, when I first joined the Kirkwall Guard, to get a potion to … make sure against accidents. And she said I didn’t need to worry, that something wasn’t made right, inside. That I’d never need to worry about it. And … there were times, when if I could, I probably would have, but she was right. I never have.”

 

“How could you think I knew?” Cullen asked, but even as he spoke, he remembered a dozen casual remarks over their time together, even back in Kirkwall: Killeen wincing at a wailing baby and saying _Thank the Maker that’s not something I’ll ever have to put up with_ ; or describing herself as _constitutionally unmaternal_. He’d assumed she referred to her preferences — assumed, too, that now they were so gloriously, happily, _together_ that those preferences would change, that she would want, as he did, for them to become _us_ , become a family. There were precautions that could be taken, by women or by couples together: they hadn't taken any of them, and as much as he’d considered it, he'd thought ... 

 

“I’m sorry,” Kill said tonelessly. “I’m so sorry, Cullen. If you want — I can’t give you —” She turned to go.

 

He crossed the room before she could reach the ladder, stopped her with a hand on her arm, drew her into an embrace encumbered by both their armour. “I love you,” he told her, first and most important truth, and then, first and most important lie: “It doesn’t matter.”


	3. In The Great Hall - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen recollects recent events

_But it does matter_ , Killeen thought, a constant niggle of annoyance underneath her conversations with quartermaster, head cook, blacksmith, like a sore tooth she couldn’t help prodding with her tongue. _It does matter._

 

She’d seen that it would matter as they struggled out of the ruins of Haven, in the moment he’d taken Fel from her arms and she’d thought how much he looked like any father carrying an overtired offspring home at the end of the day. And a dozen, a hundred times since, as he made up stories by the fireside to help the little girl sleep, carried her on his shoulders above the convoy of refugees, tricked Fel into learning her numbers and letters over the breakfast table each morning.

 

Seen, and then in the dizzying, overwhelming happiness of the past months, refused to let herself see, that however much Cullen might love her, he would not, in the end, be happy without a family.

 

And he _did_ love her — she had no doubt of that. Even that first, blissful morning had too many perfect imperfections to be anything but real: her eyes scratchy from floods of tears, Dorian’s interruption …

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Dorian_!” Cullen snatched the sheets and blankets up, flushing beet red. “ _Knock_ , man!”

 

Killeen looked over Cullen’s shoulder to see the mage lounging against the balustrade, head tilted to one side.

 

He winked at her, and then smiled, and said, with flawless mimicry:

 

“I’m … so. _Sorry_.”

 

Killeen couldn’t help laughing as Cullen buried his face against her shoulder. “Dorian …” she said. “Downstairs, please.”

 

“But the scenery here is so magnificent!” the mage protested.

 

With an effort, Killeen made her expression stern. “Dorian.”

 

“All right, all right …” He removed himself from the balustrade and disappeared down the stairs.

 

“Maker’s _breath_ ,” Cullen muttered, rolling over to lie on his back, one arm flung over his eyes.

 

“He did rather owe you that,” Killeen pointed out. “And it might be an idea for us to get out of here before the Iron Bull decides to get his own back as well.”

 

With a look of horror, Cullen all but leapt out of bed, hastily tucking himself back into his breeches. _Next time, it all comes off_ , Killeen thought as she sat up and looked around for her own clothes, and then felt a little lift of her heart at the absolute certainty there’d be a _next time_.

 

Her own clothes had vanished, but the shirt she’d been wearing when she woke was crumpled at the foot of the bed. Killeen pulled it on, the tightness across the shoulders suggesting it was in fact one of the Inquisitor’s. _Probably her loosest, most comfortable,_ she thought, hooking as many of the fastenings as she could. “Cullen? I don’t suppose you’ve seen my pants anywhere?”

 

He paused, and then said, soft and serious. “I think they went to the laundry, with the sheets. There was a lot of blood.”

 

The look on his face was not to be borne, not on a morning that should contain nothing but joy. Deliberately, Killeen glanced at the bed. “I think _these_ sheets will need to go to the laundry as well,” she said dryly, and was rewarded by his blush and an embarrassed smile. She raised her voice. “Dorian? I need a pair of breeches.”

 

“I am not your valet, my dear lady Lieutenant. However — ” A bundle of cloth sailed over the balustrade and Cullen caught it. “Lady Trevelyan did recollect your lack of suitable attire. Those should fit.”

 

Killeen stood up, braced against the pain and weakness she expected in her leg, and was surprised when there was none. Looking down, she saw the scars faded to faint silver, the wasted muscle strong again.

 

Following her glance, Cullen said, “The amount of magic Lady Trevelyan poured into you last night, I expect she cured your corns as well.”

 

“I do not have —”

 

He grinned, and handed her the breeches. “You’ll have to get some, then. All proper soldiers complain about their corns.”

 

She finished dressing while he stripped the bed. “All proper soldiers take proper care of their feet, thank you very much.”

 

They were out of reasons to delay their exit, but still, both hesitated.

 

“Do you think he’s told anyone?” Cullen asked quietly.

 

Not quietly enough: Dorian’s melodious voice floated up from the corridor below. “My dear Commander, the only people in Skyhold who needed to be _told_ have been sent to the infirmary to have their hearing checked.”

 

“We weren’t _that_ loud, were we?” Killeen whispered to Cullen.

 

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” he whispered back, and then leaned closer to her, lips brushing her ear, to barely breathe, “You sounded wonderful.”

 

Her knees weakened and her sight dimmed a little. “Oh,” she managed to say huskily. “Good, then.”

 

Cullen took her hand. “Ready to face the music?”

 

Killeen took a deep breath. “So long as nobody expects me to dance.”

 

When they descended the stairs, Dorian opened the door to the Great Hall for them with an extravagantly courtly bow, which, Killeen later realised, should have been warning enough. Her mind was not at its sharpest, though, floating as she was in a haze of wondering delight and utter satiation, and so she was completely unprepared to step through the doorway and find herself facing what felt like an absolute throng of people.

 

She heard Cullen’s intake of breath as he saw the same thing and reached back to grab his hand before he could bolt back into the Inquisitor’s quarters and no doubt try to escape by climbing down from the balcony.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” she told him, thinking _It’s not actually all that many people, after all, just Varric and the Iron Bull and the Spymaster and Cassandra and …_

 

_The Inquisitor. Who I punched in the face this morning._

 

Suddenly, throwing a rope made of twisted sheets over the railing and braving the sheer drop below looked like an attractive proposition.

 

And then the Iron Bull unfolded his massive arms, rose from the bench where he’d been lounging …

 

And began to clap.

 

Killeen didn’t need to look at Cullen to know he was crimson with embarrassment, knew for sure she must be, as their _audience_ began to join in the applause. “About time, Curly!” came from Varric, and Sera grinned at Killeen and made an obscene gesture with fingers and tongue.

 

Cullen’s fingers tightened on hers. “Make a run for it?”

 

“Not on your life.” Instead, she took one step forward, and gave her best, most elaborate, most absurd bow. “Your Worship, I believe I owe you an explanation, an apology — and some clean sheets.”

 

Varric guffawed, and Lady Trevelyan said, “And nine silver. I picked this evening in the pool, and Varric won’t pay because it’s before noon.”

 

Killeen gaped, then managed to close her mouth. “There’s a betting pool?”

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “It, ah. Didn’t seem the time to mention … ”

 

She turned to look at him. “There’s a pool, and you _knew_ about it?”

 

He coloured. “I didn’t think they were still — I would have told you.”

 

“I did have to suspend betting for a while there,” Varric said cheerfully. “That whole _having a dragon fall on your head_ thing you did meant a lot of odds had to be recalculated.”

 

“ _How long_ have you been making book on this?” Killeen demanded.

 

Varric scratched his head. “Oh, about a week after we arrived in Skyhold.” At her expression, he shrugged. “Curly’s been crazy about you since just about forever, Killer. It was just a question of how long it’d take him to win you over. Longer than anyone thought, actually.”

 

“Maker’s manhood, I wish you’d bloody mentioned it!” Killeen snapped. “I thought he and the Inquisitor were —”

 

“I thought as much!” Cassandra said triumphantly. “But Varric insisted you could not possibly have come to such a conclusion and your remarks about the Inquisitor were simply meant to misdirect us from your own feelings.”

 

“Wait, you thought me and Cullen —” Lady Trevelyan said, and began to laugh. “Cullen, didn’t you tell her?”

 

“It didn’t seem to be my place to discuss your personal life,” Cullen said, and then, wryly, “Although you all seem to have spent plenty of time discussing mine.”

 

“I picked flowers for you to give to her!” Killeen said, not caring about the onlookers. “Do you know how hard it is to find wildflowers in the Frostbacks in fucking winter?”

 

The Inquisitor glared at Cullen. “You sent your Lieutenant to pick flowers for me?” she demanded.

 

“She volunteered!” Cullen protested. “And no! I mean — why is this _my_ fault?”

 

“Well it certainly isn’t mine,” Lady Trevelyan said, and as Sera leaned over to whisper to Varric, “Varric Tethras, if you take one bet before the odds close I will peel you from the feet upwards.”

 

“Understood, your Inquisitorialness,” Varric said respectfully. “May I take notes? There’s a best-seller in this.”

 

“No!” Killeen said. “No, you may not take notes!” At Dorian’s chuckle, she rounded on him. “And you, Pavus, would it have killed you to mention that Cullen _hadn’t_ married Lady Trevelyan?”

 

“ _Married_?” Lady Trevelyan and Lady Montilyet said in near unison.

 

Dorian held up his hands. “My dear lovely lady Lieutenant, if it had so much as crossed my mind that anyone could entertain such an idea, I would most certainly have disabused you of your misconception.”

 

“I am beginning,” Lady Trevelyan said, “to understand why you hit me. Although a question or two before resorting to violence would not have gone amiss. And you still owe me nine silver.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Killeen said. “Nine silver. And — one clean swing.”

 

“Oh, no!” The Inquisitor’s expression was one of comically exaggerated horror. “I’m not risking Commander Cullen’s wrath!”

 

“Your Worship,” Killeen said firmly, knowing _that_ was something she had to step on fast and hard, “I fight my own battles. I will meet you at the training yard at a time of your choosing.”

 

Lady Trevelyan grinned. “You might fight your own battles, but I choose my own battlegrounds. I’ll meet you over the _chessboard_ at a time of _yours_.”

 

Although Killeen would have infinitely preferred a punch in the face, she had no choice but to agree.

 

“ _Now_ can we make a run for it?” Cullen asked plaintively.

 

They did not run. They walked, with dignity, at least until the door to the rotunda closed behind them.

 

Then Killeen said, “Last one to your office owes the Inquisitor nine silver!” and bolted for the walkway.

 

Cullen claimed, of course, that he’d let her win out of concern she’d strain her recent wounds, and as Killeen leaned on his desk, panting for breath and cursing the condition she’d lost since Haven, she had to admit he might just be telling the truth.

 

Well, he could afford the nine silver more easily than she … and he’d known about the book Varric had been running, too, which made it more than fair he pay the penalty.

 

Catching her breath, she told him as much.

 

“Of course,” he agreed so readily she wished she’d insisted on another nine for herself on top. “Are you all right?”

 

Killeen nodded. “Just out of shape.”

 

He locked the door behind them, and took her in his arms. “Not from where I’m standing.”


	4. In The Yard - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone learns to run.

In the weeks that followed Cullen learned her body with the dedication of man who'd discovered his life's calling, and an unabashed devotion to her pleasure that Killeen would once have thought would make her self-conscious. Long resigned to not being exactly the pick of the litter, it had never occurred to her that any man, let alone one as beautiful as Cullen, would want to spend hours kissing her, tracing the scars on her back with his fingertips, studying every inch of her body with wonder and almost reverence. He was so obviously genuine, though, so very evidently aroused just by the sight of her, that Killeen found herself almost believing she was as desirable as he insisted.

 

His ready response to her was an astonishing delight, but so too were the moments when, both sated and exhausted, they lay together and, after so long contenting herself with sidelong glances, she could look her fill. By sunlight, candlelight or moonlight, he was gorgeous, and Killeen in turn learned every inch of _him_ , kissed the hollow of his throat and ran her hands along his long clean limbs, memorised the pattern of muscles and scars on his sword-arm, tugged her fingers through his hair and watched his eyes drift close as she kissed him, drew back to enjoy the sight of his face, open and vulnerable with love and lust.

 

“Beautiful, glorious man,” she whispered, and watched the smile that curled his lips. “My darling, my heart, my own.” Feeling his cock stiffen against her thigh, she reached down to touch him, gently, almost teasing, and he moaned a little. Killeen smiled. “Do you like this?”

 

His eyes flew open and he softened in her grip. “Stop,” he gasped.

 

She did, moved away from him on the bed for good measure. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No —” He reached out a hand to her and she took it, holding on firmly. “My fault, not yours.” A long pause, and then, not looking at her. “She — it — the demon. Kept saying that.”

 

Feeling a little sick, Killeen said again, “I’m sorry.”

 

Cullen heaved a deep breath, and rolled over onto his side to look at her. “I’ve never … you weren’t to know. It feels like such a long time since I … thought about it.”

 

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked carefully.

 

He managed a smile. “Not really,” he said ruefully. “But I think I should. Not while you’re all the way over there, though.”

 

She opened her arms and he came into them, pressed his face to the hollow of her shoulder and, slowly, haltingly, told her all of it. By the time he reached the end he was shaking, long waves of shivering sweeping him from head to foot although the night was mild. Killeen rubbed his shoulders until she felt him begin to relax, thinking _so that’s why …_

 

He’d become talented with lips and tongue but the first and only time she’d tried to return the favour he’d pushed her away with something like panic. _No. Not that, Kill, please, not ever_.

 

_So that’s why…_

 

“Please say something,” he said, muffled against her skin.

 

“I love you,” she said, and felt the last of the tension leave him.

 

“I thought you’d … I don’t know. Be horrified at me.”

 

“Dolt,” she said affectionately, and felt him laugh.

 

“At least I didn’t think you’d gone off and got married without even mentioning it,” he pointed out.

 

“It made sense at the time!” Killeen said defensively.

 

“It made no sense whatsoever,” Cullen said, raising his head to look at her. “But I’ll make allowances for how sick you were.”

 

“And what’s your excuse for never mentioning that your girlfriend the Herald preferred girlfriends?” Killeen countered.

 

He groaned. “Are you going to hold that against me forever?”

 

“Not _forever_ ,” Killeen said judiciously. “I’ll probably forgive you by the time we’re both old and decrepit, doddering around with walking sticks and boring everyone who can’t get away from us with stories of our glory days defeating Corypheus.”

 

It was the first time either of them had mentioned a future beyond this room, this bed, this glorious month, and Killeen realised it at the same instant that Cullen caught his breath and went completely still.

 

 _Well, shit_ , she thought, and tried to find a way to take it back before she had to hear him tell her that he _hadn’t planned_ , that he _didn’t think_ , that he was _sorry she’d thought that …_

 

“I’m sure,” he said softly, “that even in our dotage we’ll have enough tactical sense to cut off their retreat.” And then: “Kill, why are you crying?”

 

“I’m not,” she said. “And anyway, so are you.”

 

It was the first night they slept together without coupling, locked in each other’s arms through all the hours of darkness. Killeen woke before dawn, and began to slip out of bed.

 

Cullen’s arms tightened around her. “Where are you going?” he murmured, as he always did.

 

“Stables,” she said, as she always did.

 

His grip loosened. “I swear, you love that horse more than me.”

 

Killeen grinned, pulling on her breeches and feeling around for her boots. “Go back to sleep. When I’ve finished riding her, I’ll be back to ride you.”

 

His eyes popped open. “Oh, _now_ I’m supposed to sleep?” He reached for her and she let him pull her closer. His mouth opened beneath hers, his breath a little sour with sleep, his eyes closing again as her tongue found and teased his.

 

Then she pulled away. “You can lie there awake, if you like, thinking about how when I come back I’ll be all hot and sweaty and flushed from the exercise, needing someone to sponge me down …”

 

Cullen groaned, and then as she headed for the ladder, sat up. “Wait, did you say you’re riding her today?”

 

She nodded. “Dennet said she’s ready.”

 

Firefly had been improving each day since Killeen’s own recovery, but Master Dennet had only the day before studied the mare as Killeen cantered her on a lunge-rope and suggested, almost casually, that it might be time to try her under a rider again. As Killeen jogged down to the stables, she was aware of apprehension tightening her chest and turning her stomach. _What if it’s too soon? What if she remembers what happened last time I rode her and panics? What if I undo all the good work Cullen did and …_

 

She came to a halt on the steps. Even the most docile, placid horse would sense the tension of a rider. Firefly … Deliberately, Killeen took deep breaths, forcing the muscles of her chest to relax, using her muscles’ reaction trick her mind to calmness, as she would have before a battle. Only when her pulse was even and her hands steady did she continue on to the stables.

 

Master Dennet rose early, as did most who worked with horses for a living, but still, there was something about the way he leaned over Firefly’s loose-box, saddle and bridle on a rail nearby, that made Killeen think he’d been there some time, had been up especially early that day.

 

He gave her a nod of greeting. “Ready?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said. “Is she?”

 

“As she’ll ever be,” Dennet said.

 

Killeen tacked up Firefly herself, although the mare had settled enough in recent weeks to tolerate handling from Dennet or his stable-hands. She talked steadily to the mare as she cinched the girth and buckled the bridle, crooning endearments and encouragement as much to calm herself as to calm Firefly.

 

Finally, she led the mare out into the training yard. The dawn was just breaking, the sun still hidden behind the keep’s walls, but illuminating the sky, casting a luminescent glow down into the yard that made the dew-beaded blades of grass glimmer and gleamed off the fair hair of the man leaning on the yard’s rail.

 

Killeen led Firefly toward him, and as she approached he ducked under the rail. “I’ll go if you’d rather?” he said.

 

She shook her head. “No. Stay, please.”

 

He reached out a hand to Firefly, and the mare lipped his fingers, and then, surprising Killeen, he took her free hand and lifted it to his breast, knuckles against his heart, a gesture of loyalty and fidelity older than the throne.

 

Before she could respond he let her go, dropped to one knee in the stableyard muck, and linked his hands for her foot.

 

 _Can you do what I do?_  Cole had asked her once, on the snowy march from ruined Haven.  _Hear people thinking?_

 

_Only Cullen._

 

Not, she had to admit to herself these days, _always_. But certainly, as she looked down at his clasped hands, his bowed head, she knew his thoughts as clearly as she knew her own.

 

The last time she had ridden Firefly, Cullen had boosted her to the mare’s back — and they had ridden out together into the shadow, had returned, both of them broken almost beyond repair. And now he knelt, in the early light of this morning when she and Firefly both might take a step further towards recovery, waiting to lift her once more.

 

Killeen didn’t believe it was possible for him to erase that moment in the shadow of the Breach, but then, unlike him, she’d never believed it was something that needed erasure.

 

She put her foot in the palm of his hands and felt his grip tighten slightly, the faintest caress of her instep, and then his arms and back tightened and uncoiled and she flew up to Firefly’s back.

 

The mare snorted as she felt Killeen’s weight and Killeen took the reins in, settled her weight firmly, as Cullen retreated to the rails. “All right, my darling, my beauty, my lovely, all right,” Killeen soothed, as Firefly twitched and shivered and finally calmed.

 

Pressure of heels and calves, and Firefly took a step forward, another. Uneven, favouring her injured leg, but still, walking — and more and more smoothly with each stride.

 

And then the mare flicked her ears, shook her neck, and pulled at the reins.

 

Killeen let them slacken a little, tightened her legs, and Firefly began to canter.

 

Three, four, five eye-wateringly jolting strides and then Killeen felt the mare _remember_ and suddenly, everything was smooth and easy, Firefly’s gait regaining its old floating grace, her own body settling in to it as if neither of them had ever for a moment doubted that _this_ was what they were made for, this union of rider and mount, two minds and bodies and hearts becoming one new perfect creature …

 

It lasted only a few circuits of the yard and then Killeen felt Firefly falter and drew her back to a walk.

 

When she dismounted though, the mare’s head was high, her ears forward.

 

Dennet came to take the reins. “She’ll do,” he said, and nothing more, but Killeen felt her heart swell with happiness so keen it was almost pain. As Dennet led Firefly back to the stables, Killeen jogged across the yard toward Cullen, then found herself running, sprinting, until he ducked under the rail and she reached him and threw herself into his arms.

 

“Did you see her?” she demanded. “Did you?”

 

“I did,” he said, holding her tightly.

 

“She’ll be all right. She’ll be all right. She’ll —” Her breath caught in a gulping sob and to her complete surprise she burst into tears.

 

“Hey,” Cullen said gently, loosening his grip a little to rub her back.

 

“I’m s-sorry, I d-don’t know why I’m c-crying!” Killeen sobbed against his shoulder. “I’m _h-happy!_ ”

 

Cullen stroked her hair. “It’s been a long road back for her.”

 

“I k-keep doing this! I d-don’t know why!” She sniffed fiercely. “Snivelling like a ch-child at the slightest th-thing.”

 

“Kill, you nearly died,” he said reasonably.

 

“B-but I didn’t! I d-don’t even really r-remember!”

 

“You might not remember, but your body does.” He wrapped his arms around her again and rocked her slightly. “Let it.”

 

“I h-hate it!” she wailed. “Being s-such a _fool_.”

 

“It’ll pass,” Cullen promised. “Give it time. It’ll pass.”

 

The gentle motion, his soothing voice, began to unknot the tightness in her chest, and her sobs eased. She straightened, and he studied her, hands on her shoulders. “All right?”

 

Killeen nodded, sniffed. “Yes. I’m —” Her stomach gave a loud rumble, and they both laughed. “Hungry. _Starving_.”

 

Cullen put his arm around her shoulders, turned her toward the stairs to the kitchen. “When are you not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowdsourcing info - does anyone know the port one would use to take ship from Fereldan to Kirkwall?


	5. In Prayer - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a conversation is interrupted

Killeen was cautious with Cullen for a while, worrying that something, some detail he had forgotten to mention, some touch or word or caress, would wake his demon and bring it to the bed they shared. Perhaps he sensed it, for his kisses were more tentative, his caresses less certain — _or perhaps_ , Killeen thought as they lay side by side in the moonlight, _he’s as frightened of me hurting him as I am, of hurting him._

 

“Cullen,” she said softly. “Are you awake?”

 

“Yes,” he mumbled.

 

She propped herself up on one elbow. “Properly awake.”

 

His eyes opened. “Yes,” he said, more clearly.

 

“Do you want me to start sleeping in my own quarters again?”

 

Cullen rolled over to face her. “Maker, no! Why would I want that?”

 

Killeen reached out to lay her hand gently on his chest. “So you don’t need to worry I’ll — do or say something. Bring back the nightmares.”

 

He covered her hand with his own. “You keep my nightmares away, you dolt. Is that’s what’s been …?”

 

Killeen nodded. “I worry that I’ll … I don’t want to ever hurt you.” And then, when he laughed, “It’s not funny!”

 

Cullen raised himself on his elbow as well, leaned in to kiss her gently. “It’s a little funny,” he whispered against her lips. “I’ve been thinking that … that you weren’t, I wasn’t …”

 

It was Killeen’s turn to laugh. “Cullen! Are you crazy?”

 

In the moonlight, she could barely see him blush. “I know you’ve … with other men. And I — well.”

 

She paused. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve been corrupting a virgin?”

 

“I don’t feel particularly corrupted, but I suppose, technically … yes.”

 

Killeen laughed, and pushed him on to his back. “You really are every woman’s fantasy,” she said, straddling him. “The eager, yet innocent —” she leaned in to kiss him, whispered against his scarred lips, “incredibly handsome, magnificently —” A twist of her hips to punctuate. “Endowed. Cloistered. Templar.” She kissed him again, letting her tongue trace his lips in the same rhythm as her rocking hips, feeling his cock harden in response.

 

"Ex-Templar," he corrected a little breathlessly.

 

"The best kind." Killeen ran her hands over the smooth planes of his chest, traced the muscles of his shoulders. "All that training in strength, endurance, discipline, concentration ... but put to good use." Her own concentration was wavering as her whole body focused in on the feel of him beneath her, tingling heat spreading from that teasing, tantalising contact to tighten her gut and set her skin aflame. "Hours spent reciting the Chant ... learning it all perfectly."

 

Cullen matched her movement, the dance of pressure and release, touch and absence, winding the building urgency inside her tighter and tighter.  “All that existed was silence,” he whispered. “Then the Voice of the —” Killeen ducked her head and tongued his nipple. “ _Maker_. Rang out.” His hands found her rump, drew her more firmly against him as his back arched. “The first Word — and His Word —”

 

Killeen ran her fingers through his hair, kissed him deeply. “His Word?”

 

“ _Please_ , Kill,” he gasped.

 

She lifted herself enough to fit him to her, sank down again with one smooth movement that made him groan and buck beneath her. She wondered if it felt as wonderful for him as it did for her, that fullness almost to the point of pain, the pulsing deep inside her as she moved on him, looked down to see his eyes closed and his head thrown back as he thrust into her, his fingers biting into her hips. The sight sent the tension inside her spiralling higher and then he groaned _Maker, yes, please_ and moved one hand to touch her where they met and her climax took her in a series of convulsive explosions, feeling him follow her with one last cry.

 

She sank down on his chest, nerves still firing and twitching. “Thoroughly corrupted,” she said, kissing the hollow of his throat.

 

“Ungh,” Cullen said, hand resting on her back, and Killeen laughed. He took a deep breath. “Maker, Kill, is it always like this?”

 

“Cullen,” she said patiently, “it’s almost _never_ like this.”

 

“Oh,” he said. “This is …?”

 

“Very, very, very good,” she assured him. “At least, for me …I don’t know, maybe men …”

 

He gave a breathless laugh. “If it was any better, I’d lose the use of my limbs.”

 

“I cannot move my legs,” Killeen said, and they both sniggered. “Cullen … you don’t feel that you’ve, I don’t know — missed out?”

 

Cullen frowned, looking genuinely perplexed. “How?”

 

“Well, other women … would be different. And you …” As he began to laugh again, she raised herself to look down at him. “How do you know that I’m what you want, if you haven’t any comparison?’

 

“If you have any doubt that you’re what I want,” he said dryly, “you haven’t been paying attention. So I’ve never picked up a woman in a tavern. Now I never need to.”

 

She smiled, laid her head back against his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be in the tavern after dinner tomorrow,” she said. “Play your cards right, ex-Templar, who knows what might happen?”


	6. In the Tavern - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen tries to flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t find who suggested this scene (or something like it) in the comments for one of the earlier stories, but here ‘tis! . Also — since I failed to put the warning on previous chapters — NSFW.

Cullen paused, hand raised to push open the door of the tavern. It was hardly the first time, or the tenth or the one-hundredth, that he’d visited the H _erald’s Rest_ , and yet his breath came faster, anxiety tightening his stomach. Inside, he could hear Maryden singing, something about ravens, the rest lost in the hubbub of voices from within.

 

His hesitation was ridiculous. Firmly, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

 

It was an anti-climatic relief that no-one seemed to notice. _Of course no-one noticed_ , Cullen told himself, although on some level he’d expected silence to fall, heads to turn, as if he’d entered accompanied by a herald crying _Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford, here to pick up a woman._

 

He scanned the room, at first not seeing Killeen, then spotting her at a table with Krem and the Iron Bull. Self-consciously, he made his way toward them.

 

“Cullen!” the Bull roared, seeing him. “Sit down, man! We’re just talking about dragons.”

 

Killeen glanced at him, rolled her eyes. _Sorry_ , her expression said.

 

Cullen shrugged slightly. The Bull was a force of nature. “I, ah. Can I get anyone a drink?”

 

“I’ll have an ale,” Killeen said. She leaned across the table and offered her hand. “I’m Killeen, by the way.”

 

Krem opened his mouth and then jerked suddenly, as if a large Qunari foot had struck him squarely in the shin. “I’m fine, thanks.”

 

“Got a jug,” the Bull said, as Cullen uncertainly took Killeen’s hand. “Kill, this is Cullen, does something in the military. Cullen, Killeen, killed a dragon.”

 

“Not really,” Killeen said. “More like, was under it when it died.”

 

_Don’t make her think about it_ , Cullen wanted to say, except they were, apparently, strangers for the evening. “Still impressive,” he said instead, and went to the bar to get Kill’s ale and a cup of the tavern’s thin, sour wine for himself.

 

He returned to hear the Bull exclaiming, “Taarsidath-an halsaam!”

 

“And what does that mean?” Killeen asked, moving up the bench a little to make room for Cullen.

 

“You don’t want to know,” Krem said as Cullen set the drinks down and took a seat next to Killeen.

 

“The closest translation is, _I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect_ ,” the Bull said.

 

Killeen sipped her ale. “I must say, that wasn’t foremost in my mind when I realised the bastard was going to land on me.” She smiled. “More like _oh shit_. What about you, Cullen? Ever fight a dragon?”

 

“I can’t say I have,” Cullen said. “I saw one at a distance, once, in the Free Marches.”

 

“Distance is the best way to see them,” Krem said.

 

“Agreed,” Killeen said.

 

Cullen felt something brush his ankle, as if one of the others had stretched their legs. Then Killeen gave him a sidelong glance and he felt the pressure again, firmer, more sustained. “So, Cullen, what do you do in the military?”

 

He gaped a little. _She knows perfectly well, more than anyone else, what I do._

 

“Paperwork, mostly,” the Bull answered for him.

 

“An army marches on its requisitions,” Killeen said. Her ankle twined around his and Cullen found his mouth suddenly dry, reached for his wine cup.

 

“Aren’t you going to ask Killeen what _she_ does, Cullen?” the Bull asked pointedly.

 

“I, uh —” _know what she does_. But they were pretending not to know each other, weren’t they? Cullen felt horribly confused. “What, um. Do you. Do?”

 

“Guess,” Killeen said with a smile.

 

Cullen realised he had absolutely no idea what to say. He opened and closed his mouth silently, pretended to need another drink to clear his throat. “Uh …”

 

Krem snickered into his beer, and the Iron Bull sighed. “Cullen,” he said. “A word?”

 

“Excuse me,” Cullen said politely to Krem and Killeen, and let the Bull draw him aside.

 

“If all humans were like you,” the Bull said, “the Qun would just have to wait a generation until you all died out. Tell her she must be a thief, because she’s stolen the sun and the stars for her eyes. Tell her she must be a baker, because she’s so delicious. Tell her she must be a wet-nurse, because she has magnificent tits.”

 

“But —” Cullen said, and swallowed the rest of the sentence as the Bull slapped him between the shoulder-blades with one huge hand.

 

“She’s here to be seduced,” the Bull said. “By _you_. That’s two out of three already. So go and seduce her, you —” the Qunari word was unfamiliar, but Cullen was fairly certainly it wasn’t complimentary.

 

As he made his way back to the table, Cullen was aware of a tightening in his stomach that was not entirely unpleasant. “Forgive me,” he said to Killeen as he sat down again. “A matter of supply distribution.” He took a deep breath. “I believe I was about to guess your role in the Inquisition?”

 

“I believe you were,” Killeen said with a smile, as Krem excused himself and left the table.

 

It was absurd to be nervous: not only did he know the correct answer, but this was a woman who’d been naked in his bed only that morning. And yet, his palms were sweating, his heart was pounding, he could hardly get his breath. It was similar to the tension of the last moment before a battle — only somehow enjoyable. “Are you, um. A gardener? Because you, ah. Must make flowers … bloom.”

 

She smiled, gaze on her drink. He felt her leg brush his again. “Not a gardener.”

 

“Oh. Um.” He sipped his wine to buy time. “Are you, ah.”

 

"You don't do this very often, do you?" Killeen said kindly. She was sitting close to him now, pressed against him from hip to ankle, and Cullen scrambled after his train of thought.

  
"No," Cullen said. "Hardly, uh. ever.  I'm afraid I'm, well. Not very good at it."

 

"What would you say I did," she asked, "if you weren't trying to out-do Varric Tethras in the pick-up line department?" Her gentle tone made it a joke between _them_ , not against _him_.

  
"Is that what I was doing?" Cullen asked.

  
"Picking me up?" Killeen said. "I certainly hope you were trying."

  
She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back, heart hammering. In the flickering torchlight her eyes were a darker grey than usual, smoky and mysterious.  Cullen looked at her hands, broad and tanned, wrapped around her mug, and then reached out and took her right hand in his, studying the network of fine cuts and nicks that ran from knuckles up to disappear under her sleeve, the universal family resemblance of those who fought with a blade for a living. "You fight with a sword," he said, setting that hand down and taking the left in turn, unmarked except for the swollen, slightly crooked knuckle that told of an old bad break, poorly treated at the time.  "And shield." 

 

She turned a little toward him. "And?"

 

"On foot," he said, brushing her narrow waist with one hand, seeing the colour rise in her cheeks at his touch. "You don't have the build of cavalry." 

 

Killeen reached out and touched the back of his own right hand with one finger. "And you don't have the scars of a clerk. Or are those papercuts?"

  
"Some of them," Cullen said honestly, and she laughed. 

 

"A scholar and a soldier. Are you going to be a gentleman as well and offer me another drink?"

 

"Of course," he said, and went to the bar again. The tavern was growing crowded, and it took him several minutes to purchase their drinks, and several more to make his way back to Killeen, forced by politeness to pause for a word with Varric and Lady Trevelyan, and then Cassandra and Blackwall. When he reached their table Killeen was leaning her head on her hand, absently tracing patterns on the table top in spilt ale, and the long graceful line of her neck and back made Cullen catch his breath.

 

He set the drinks down, unable to frame words for a moment, and took the seat next to her again.

 

“Thanks,” she said softly, raised her cup and tipped it toward him. He touched his own to it, drank as she did. “So is there a Mistress Cullen?”

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “Not, um. As yet.”

 

Killeen sipped again, and beneath the table, put her hand on his knee. His mind went blank of everything except the gentle pressure of her fingers. She gave him a sidelong smile and her hand moved higher, fingers tracing the muscles of his thigh. “So you’re a free man?”

 

Cullen managed to make a vaguely affirmative noise. Killeen was sitting very close to him now, and the temptation to touch — he gave in to it, stroking the smooth line of her leg, trusting to the table to conceal his hand from onlookers as it was, hopefully, hiding the motion of her fingers and his own reaction.

 

“Would you like …” She leaned toward him, every point of contact between them making his skin tingle and jump like a mage’s lightning spell. “To go somewhere and be …” Her lips brushed his ear. “Even more free?”

 

Her hand reached his crotch, the unmistakable evidence that he would, indeed, like that very much. His own hand slid up to cup her sex and she caught her breath, moved against his fingers. “I might need a minute to make an exit,” he said hoarsely.

 

Killeen laughed softly, and leaned away from him enough to unfasten his cloak, swinging it around to drop it in his lap. “Camouflage,” she said. “Meet you outside.”

 

She swung herself around and stood up, heading for the door. Cullen watched her go, the easy animal grace of her stride and the movement of the firm muscles of her rump beneath her breeches almost more incendiary than her touch had been.

 

Once she’d gone through the door, he rose to his feet, careful to hold his cloak so it would, indeed, be camouflage, and followed her. After the heat of the crowded tavern, the cool of the autumn night was welcome as he looked around for Killeen.

 

“Over here, handsome,” she said from the shadows by the corner of the building, voice light with merriment. When he reached her, she took a firm hold of the front of his shirt and drew her to him, stopping just before his lips reached hers. “We could —”

 

At the feeling of her breath brushing his lips, the last of his self-control frayed and he cut off her words with his mouth over hers, pressing her back against the wall to feel her body firmly fit to his from shoulder to knee. The strange, delicious uncertainty he’d felt in the tavern combined with the frustratingly inadequate friction of their bodies to become an urgent need that insisted _now, now, now_. He worked his knee between hers, pushed her harder against the wall and felt her moan into his mouth.

 

Panting, Killeen turned her face away. “Not — here.” She squirmed away from him, grabbed his hand and dragged him around the corner into the bushes that grew against the rear of the building, then pulled him to her again. “Here,” she whispered urgently, fingers pulling at his breeches. “Here, now, please!”

 

Cullen needed no further encouragement although as she freed his throbbing cock he thought for a moment he wouldn’t last to get inside her. She wriggled out of her own pants, hooked a leg around his hips and guided him to her, groaning as he buried himself to the hilt with one thrust. He claimed her mouth again, crushing her against the wall as he drove into her, aware of nothing beyond the pulsing heat around his cock, the tongue stroking his, the hands tangled in his hair —

 

“ _Maker_ ,” Killeen groaned against his lips and he felt her come, the powerful spasms bringing him to his own climax.

 

For a moment they were both still, and then Killeen gave a breathless laugh. “If that’s the first time you’ve picked up a woman over a drink, the ladies of Kirkwall don’t know what they missed out on.”


	7. In His Dreams - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something is, finally, talked about

Killeen woke, completely and instantly, as Cullen murmured in his sleep.

 

“Cullen, you’re dreaming,” she said softly, and heard the shift in his breathing as he woke. His arms tightened around her, his lips brushed the back of her neck. “Bad dream?”

 

“No,” he whispered, drawing her more firmly against him. “Very good dream.” His hand slid down between her legs and she arched against him with a groan, a bolt of heat shooting through her. “I might still be dreaming,” he whispered, beginning to rock against her, his touch gentle but firm. “Oh, yes. Yes.”

 

_Cullen whispered: “Yes, oh yes…” against her hair, his hands roaming slowly over her, moving more urgently now, and she knew it was wrong, knew she should wake him but, Maker, it felt so good — she let herself imagine he was awake, that it was her he wanted —_

 

The sudden memory of the way she’d taken advantage of Cullen’s trust, his vulnerability, turned Killeen’s stomach. “Stop,” she coughed, and as Cullen’s grip loosened she scrambled out of bed, lost her footing and fell to her hands and knees, retching.

 

“Kill?” She heard Cullen throw back the sheets and stand.

 

“Sorry,” she gasped, and vomited again. “I’m so sorry.” He touched her shoulder, withdrew his hand as she flinched away. “Cullen, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s all right,” he said. As her nausea eased, Killeen blinked her vision clear to see him offering her a mug. “Water,” he said.

 

She took it, drank to clean her mouth. With nowhere to spit she swallowed the taste of sour bile and fought another wave of sickness.

 

Cullen pulled the top sheet from the bed and dropped it over her vomit. “What did I do?” he asked, so conversationally that only someone who knew him as well as Killeen did would have heard the strain.

 

“Nothing,” she said.

 

“Kill, if you don’t _tell_ me —” he said.

 

She cut him off. “No.”

 

“Kill —” He knelt beside her, not too close.

 

She forced the words out. “Not you. Me.” Deep breaths against the nausea. “I … did something. It —”

 

“I don’t care,” Cullen said. “Whatever it was, I don’t care. Kill, do you hear me?”

 

“You were asleep,” Killeen said, shame a hot coal in her gut. “One morning, before … all of this. I didn’t … wake you. I — Maker, Cullen, I’m so sorry! I knew it was wrong, I’m so sorry —”

 

“Kill. Killeen.” He reached out a hand toward her, let it drop when she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

 

Killeen took a deep breath, another, closed her eyes to make it easier to say what she knew she had to. “That morning. The last one before the Arbor Wilds. I woke up and you were dreaming — I thought it was one of your nightmares but you … it wasn’t. You were dreaming about the Inquisitor, you thought I was her, and it just felt so good, and I — I’m sorry. I didn’t — Cullen, I’d wanted you for so long and I —”

 

“That morning, I was dreaming of _you_ , you dolt.” Cullen said, moving a little closer to her. “I dream of beating Lady Trevelyan at chess, not of making love to her. That morning, I dreamed you were in my arms, and I woke up, and you were.”

 

“It doesn’t matter who you were dreaming of,” Killeen said, eyes filling with tears.

 

Cullen’s voice held a hint of exasperation. “Did you hear me? I _woke up_.”

 

“What _I_ did was still wrong,” Killeen said. “I thought you were asleep. I —”

 

“Kill, I swear sometimes you can hear me open my eyes,” Cullen said. “If you thought I was asleep it was the only time you’ve been wrong on that count since Haven. And if you’re going to cry, will you please come over here and do it?”

 

She risked a glance at him, saw nothing but concern in his expression, not the distaste or disgust she’d feared and expected. He held out his arms and she went into them, burying her face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

 

“I’m not,” Cullen said, holding her tightly. “I was thoroughly delighted, and thoroughly confused when you seemed to want to pretend nothing had happened, but I most definitely wasn’t, at any point, _sorry_. Even if you did have to tell yourself I was asleep to believe it. Maker, Kill, you were so beautiful, it was so glorious to see you and hear you and _feel_ you …”

 

“I thought you must be asleep,” she said. “Because you wouldn’t cheat on Lady Trevelyan.”

 

He rubbed her back. “Because of the kind of man I’d be if I did?” he suggested gently.

 

Killeen realised it was true. “Yes.” The knot in her stomach suddenly eased and she relaxed against him, beginning to sob with relief.

 

“Have you been feeling guilty about it all this time?” Cullen asked, rocking her gently.

 

“I h-haven’t thought ab-bout it,” she admitted. “I didn’t w-want to … this m-morning, it r-reminded me …”

 

“And here I was just trying to recreate a happy memory,” Cullen said. “Kill … that morning, you _were_ — I heard you say _yes_ , and I thought … you were willing. Weren’t you?”

 

“ _Maker_ , yes,” she said, her sobs starting to ease, and felt him laugh. “I’d d-dreamed, imagined … sometimes even pretended, but it felt so much b-better than I’d ever thought.”

 

“Sometime, I’d like to hear about that,” Cullen said softly. “But for now, I think you should get back into bed while I clean up.”

 

“I can do that,” Killeen protested as he started to get to his feet.

 

“I still have a long way to go before we’re even,” he pointed out, helping her up and steering her to the bed. “And you haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

 

“And whose fault is that?” she asked, and he blushed a little, grinned at her. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

 

“I’ll try to be more considerate.”

 

Killeen curled up, watching the muscles of his back slide beneath the skin as he gathered the soiled sheet from the floor. “Don’t you dare.”

 

Despite her protestations, Killeen dozed before Cullen came back, waking briefly as a clean sheet settled over her. The mattress gave as he lay down beside her and she rolled over to rest against his shoulder, slipped back down into sleep to the touch of his hand on her hair, the even whisper of his breath.

 

Dreamed, as far as she could remember later, of absolutely nothing at all. 


	8. In The Garden - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a chess game

“You do know the rules?” Lady Trevelyan asked as she set out the pieces.

 

Killeen nodded. She was not looking forward to the game, but at least the garden was still relatively warm and pleasant in the middle of the day, despite the approach of autumn, late-blooming flowers speckling the foliage with tiny stars of white and yellow, and huge, blowsy, overblown roses dropping petals with every gust.   “Cullen explained them,” she said. “The knights go sideways?”

 

“The mages go sideways,” the Inquisitor corrected, touching one with a manicured finger. “The knights go two-and-one.” She demonstrated.

 

“Not very realistic,” Killeen said. “They should go straight ahead, like a charge.”

 

Lady Trevelyan laughed. “I quite agree,” she said. “No-one is less likely to cut a corner than Commander Cullen, to take one example. But if we start rewriting the rules for realism, it’ll never stop. I mean, in Wicked Grace a full house beats two queens, which would make Ella down in Crestwood ruler of Ferelden _and_ Orlais. You know she’s expecting again?”

 

“ _Again_?” Killeen said, remembering the tribe of dirty-faced children racing around the woman’s house when she’d been posted in Crestwood.

 

The Inquisitor advanced a pawn. “I understand her husband’s returned home, now the militias are being reduced. I daresay after so long apart they were as enthusiastic about each other’s company as you and Cullen are.”

 

Killeen’s cheeks flamed. Hastily she moved one of her knights. “I, um.”

 

Lady Trevelyan laughed. “Just don’t exhaust him _too_ much,” she said, moving another pawn. “The Inquisition still has work to do.”

 

Still blushing, Killeen made another move, more or less at random. “Um. I’ll try, but he …”

 

“Might object?” the Inquisitor said, smiling.

 

“Yes.” Killeen studied the board.  “Out of interest, Inquisitor … how long did you know?”

 

“Since Haven,” Lady Trevelyan said, moving a mage.

 

Killeen countered with a pawn. “You can’t have. Cullen said he wasn’t in love with me, then.”

 

“Killeen, he talked my ear off for two hours about how wonderful you were. He might be slow on the uptake, but _I’m_ not. Also, check.” At Killeen’s look of incomprehension, the Inquisitor touched her mage, indicating the threat to Killeen’s king. “I didn’t realise this would be quite so heartless when I proposed it,” she said apologetically. “I thought that you must know how to play, given how much Cullen enjoys it.”

 

“No,” Killeen said. “I don’t play chess, he doesn’t play Wicked Grace or tell jokes. At least, he _shouldn’t_. Have I lost?”

 

“Not yet,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Move your castle sideways, block my mage.”

 

“Then you’ll take it!” Killeen objected.

 

“If I do, you can take my mage with your king. It’s not a bad trade — and one I’ll decline to offer.”

 

“A single mage shouldn’t be able to take a castle, anyway,” Killeen said, making the suggested move.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Trevelyan said, moving another piece. “You should see Vivienne when she’s irritated. If the castle in question had mismatching curtains and cushion covers, she could probably reduce it to rubble, let alone take it.”

 

Killeen tried to work out which piece she should move next, decided on her other knight. “The only magic I’ve seen her work is healing. I owe my life to her, more than once. You, too.”

 

“I’m not up to her standards yet.” Lady Trevelyan moved another pawn. “She’s not just powerful, she’s incredibly knowledgeable. I’m still at the _throw everything at it and hope what’s wrong gets fixed_ stage.”

 

“You did fix me,” Killeen said. She started to move her knight again, stopped as Lady Trevelyan shook her head.

 

“That’ll put your king in check,” the Inquisitor said. “You can’t do that. And I’m glad I did, even if you did break my nose as thanks.”

 

“I really am sorry about that,” Killeen mumbled. ""I thought you were ... "

 

"Playing Cullen for a fool?"  the Inquisitor said. 

 

Killeen nodded. "I do realise now how foolish it was, now. But at the time ..." She paused, trying to find the words to explain how it had all seemed entirely logical, all part of the same grey misery that had drained the colour from her world and the warmth from her flesh.

 

"At the time, you were very ill," Lady Trevelyan said. 

 

""I'm not, anymore, thanks to you," Killeen said. "I - I know it's not likely, but if there's anything I can ever do to repay you, Inquisitor. You have only to ask."  She tried another move, stopped again. “That will be check, too, won’t it?”

 

“Yes," the Inquisitor said. "And you can repay me by making Cullen happy. Which, given how much smiling and absent-minded humming he's been doing on the rare occasions he can tear himself away from you long enough to attend the War Room, I'd say you've already succeeded at." 

 

Killeen studied the board a moment longer. “Are there _any_ pieces I can move?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” the Inquisitor said. “I’ve won.”

 

Killeen sighed. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Lady Trevelyan said with a grin. “Now we’re even. And you can stop looking like you want to fall through the floor whenever you see me.”

 

“Um,” Killeen said. “All right?”

 

The Inquisitor leaned back in her chair and studied Killeen. “We are going to have to be friends, you know,” she said. “I’m very fond of Cullen and it’s all going to be very awkward if you keep skulking away whenever I appear.”

 

_That_ was a complication Killeen hadn’t even considered — Cullen’s far closer relationship with not just the Inquisitor, but her advisers and companions. “I’m afraid I’m not used to elevated company,” she confessed.

 

“You’re good friends with Dorian,” Lady Trevelyan pointed out. “And I know you drink with the Bull and the Chargers sometimes. The rest of us are just as nice, I promise.”

 

“I —” Killeen paused, then blurted, “I’ve spent so long being jealous of you.”

 

“Yes, well,” the Inquisitor said dryly, “I do hope you and Cullen have gotten rather better at talking to each other these days.”

 

“We have,” Killeen said, thinking of that morning. At the memory of Cullen’s patience, his tenderness, her eyes filled with tears.

 

“Don’t cry!” Lady Trevelyan said in alarm. “Thedas isn’t big enough to hide in if Cullen finds out I’ve made you cry!”

 

Killeen blinked furiously, sniffed. “You haven’t,” she said shakily, covering her face with her hands. “I keep d-doing this. S-sorry.”

 

Cloth rustled, and then Killeen was astonished to feel the Inquisitor awkwardly patting her shoulder. “It’s completely understandable.”

 

“That’s wh-what Cullen says,” Killeen said, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It’s going to b-be very embarrassing if it doesn’t stop b-by the time I start training again, though. I can’t be dissolving in tears in front of the whole squad.”

 

“Perhaps take it easy for another month or so,” Lady Trevelyan said. She produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief from a pocket and offered it to Killeen.

 

“Fancy,” Killeen said, taking it gingerly.

 

The Inquisitor looked embarrassed. “Josie,” she explained. “Things of mine keep vanishing and being replaced by substitutes _more fitting to my station_.”

 

“At least she hasn’t got you in cloth of gold,” Killeen said.

 

“Not yet, anyway,” Lady Trevelyan said grimly, and then smiled as Killeen laughed. “That’s better.” She held out her hand. “So, friends?”

 

Killeen took it, nodding. “Friends,” she said, knowing as she did so that while it might not be true yet, the time would come when it would be.


	9. In The Moonlight - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone has difficulty sleeping

 The full moon shining through the hole in the ceiling lit the loft room almost as brightly as daylight, although washed clean of colour. Cullen propped his head on his hand and watched the way the moving leaves cast a shifting network of shadows on Killeen’s skin, alternately revealing and concealing the silvery scars that striped her face, stippled her side, stretched from knee to hip of her right leg.

 

The last watch bell sounded through the keep. Killeen stirred and rolled over onto her back, then without opening her eyes murmured, “Still awake?”

 

Cullen smiled. _As if she’d ever not know whether I was awake or asleep._ “I’m fine,” he assured her softly. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Don’t forget to let the nug out,” she mumbled, and he realised she _was_ still asleep. “Or it’ll eat the requisitions again.”

 

“I won’t,” he promised, and she sighed and was still.

 

The leaves moved again, showing him the straight line that told of the cut made by Stitches, the irregular mottling left by the worst of her burns. _She is well_ , he told himself, looking back at Kill’s face to reassure himself. The weight she had lost during her long illness had returned, perhaps even a little more in the absence of her regular training.

 

Cullen was glad of that, although Kill was beginning to talk more frequently of returning to the training yard. In fact, he knew he’d prefer it if she never again picked up a sword — although that was something he could never admit to her, something he himself knew was absurd, and an expectation he’d never accept applied to himself.

 

 _Still_ … he traced the scars, gently. She had survived the impossible, through luck and the Maker’s grace. Was it so irrational to wish her never to be in such peril again? The memory of the sight of her armour, charred and crushed, still chilled him, as did the traces on her flesh of the pain she’d endured.

 

“Cullen,” Killeen said softly, startling him. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing,” he said, trying to smile. “Go back to sleep.”

 

Instead, she rolled over to face him. “You don’t look like it’s nothing. Were you thinking about Samson again?”

 

It would be easy to say _yes_ : the former Red Templar commander was close to death as the red lyrium he’d consumed claimed him, and in truth, the man’s fate did weigh on Cullen’s mind.

 

 _Easy, but not honest_. “No,” he said instead. “I was … I can’t help thinking about … I thought you were going to die, Kill. I thought I’d killed you.”

 

“Not you,” Kill said quickly. “It was a fight. And you couldn’t have kept me from it if you’d tried.”

 

“You were —” Cullen’s voice broke, and Killeen wrapped her arms around him, drew him down to her.

 

“But I’m not. I’m here. I’m well,” she said, the strength of her embrace saying as much.

 

“Kill, if something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

 

“You’d go on,” she said calmly. “If something happened to you, I’d go on. I wouldn’t much want to, but I would. People do.”

 

“I _don’t_ want to. I don’t ever want to be without you.”

 

“This is about me training again, isn’t it?” she said, and sighed gustily enough to stir his hair. “Cullen, I’m a soldier. As tempting as the prospect of spending the rest of my life lying around waiting for you to make me moan in ecstasy is, it isn’t going to happen.”

 

“I know,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t want you to be any different than you are, Kill. I just … give me some time to get used to it. Please? You don’t know what it was like, all those days you didn’t wake, all those weeks watching you fade away.”

 

“ _Some_ time,” she conceded. “The Inquisitor suggested I wait a little, anyway. But not _forever_ , Cullen, don’t go getting ideas.”

 

“All right,” he agreed.

 

"And I _am_ going to the armoury to requisition new equipment. The paperwork's been on your desk all week."

 

 _Blackened, twisted scraps of metal, charred leather ..._   "I know."

 

"If you don't sign it," Killeen said reasonably, "you know I'll only have to forge your signature." 

 

 _She would, too_. ""I'll sign it," he said, " _if_ you go to Master Harritt in the smithy instead of drawing from the armoury stocks.

 

"I don't need anything fancy - " Killeen  started. 

 

"Then tell him that," Cullen said.  "You'll have good quality gear, Kill, no argument.""

 

It was her turn to sigh, and say resignedly, "All right. Are you going to stop thinking about it and go to sleep?” 

 

“Yes,” he lied, and she sighed again, stroked his hair in silence a moment.

 

“I had a letter from Denerim yesterday,” she said after a while, and he realised she was seeking to distract him from his thoughts. “I have a nephew. Have had, for a while, actually, but you know what the mail has been like since Corypheus.”

 

“What’s his name?” Cullen asked.

 

“Thomas. Thomas Hanmount.”

 

He raised his head a little. “So Jean didn’t find anyone to marry?”

 

“Apparently not,” Killeen said dryly, “although I suspect it wasn’t for lack of trying. If you thought those Orlesian girls chased you too energetically, let me tell you, they’ve nothing on Jean. Mama wrote that she’s convinced she’s shamed for life, although if that’s the case she has good company in that neighbourhood.”

 

“If she’s religious —” Cullen started to say, and stopped as she hooted with laughter. “Ah. So, _not_ , then?”

 

“Compared to Jean, I’m a Revered Mother.”

 

“That’s, ah. Difficult to imagine,” he said. “Although I daresay services would be interesting. Oh Maker, hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death — which reminds me of the story of the three Chantry sisters… ”

 

“Four,” she corrected.

 

Cullen put his head back down on her shoulder. “You’ll have to tell it to me again, so I can get it right.”

 

“I’m resigned to you _never_ getting it right,” Kill said, “but all right. Four Chantry sisters die and find themselves before the Maker. And he says, you’ve all led good and pure lives, sung only the Chant, so on and so forth, _but_ …”

 

He smiled as he listened to her, knowing he’d never remember the exact cadence and emphasis that made the joke work so well when she told it.

 

Somewhere between the second and third sisters, he drifted into sleep. 


	10. In The Tavern - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which assumptions are revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry many of these chapters have been shorter than usual. As I tie up loose ends from “Side By Side” before diving into a new plot, I’ve been breaking chapters where it feels natural, and because these are isolated scenes over several weeks, shorter chapters have felt ‘right’. As I move further into the new plot, I confidently expect chapters to resume their previous length.

Killeen found the experience of being fitted for custom armour unusual but, she had to admit, pleasant — once she got over the feeling that at any moment the quartermaster would burst in to the smithy and denounce her as an impostor and an intruder.

 

The feeling persisted as Master Harritt took her measurements in far greater detail and with far more precision than Killeen was used to. Choosing armour, in her experience, involved selecting pieces that were close enough and then spending painstaking hours adjusting lacing and resewing plates until the the fit was perfect — not standing with one's arms out while a smith muttered about the third-of-an-inch difference between one's left bicep and the right.

 

Nor was she used to then being consulted, in great detail, on precisely which set of spalder she'd prefer or whether she wanted a side-closing or rear-set gorget. Harritt had firm opinions, but then, so did Killeen, and she soon forgot to be uncomfortable as they argued the relative merits of types of cuisse and cuirass. Harritt had her test and judge several shields, and a dozen swords, shaking his head over her fondness for bound-wire grips and grunting in approval when she confessed some small familiarity with two-handed blades.

 

Then Harritt said, "Tomorrow", and turned to sorting through ingots of a colour Killeen had never seen before, and she realised she was dismissed.

 

Firefly, of course, was waiting, head over the door of her loosebox, ears pricked. She was all but the mare she had been once more, coat smooth and glossy, eyes bright, a tendency to favour that one bad leg when she was tired or her rider was distracted the only lingering trace of the scared, scarred horse Killeen had seen that first day in the stableyard. She nosed Killeen's pockets for apples and looked betrayed when none were forthcoming.

 

Killeen rubbed her nose. "No more treats until you're doing a bit more exercise. We'll both get fat at this rate."

 

"She's about ready," Dennet said from behind her.

 

Killeen's heart gave a double thump of excitement but she forced herself to turn slowly, ask casually, "For?"

 

"Roadwork," Dennet said with a look that meant _You're not fooling me_. "If you are."

 

Killeen wanted nothing more than to saddle Firefly that moment and head for the gate: as large as Skyhold was, it could begin to feel small after weeks entirely within its walls. Common sense, however, told her that there were still bandits, wild animals, even the occasional lost Darkspawn or hold-out rebel mage to be considered. Unarmed and unarmoured was no way to face the possible hazards outside the keep walls.

 

Reluctantly, she shook her head. "Tomorrow, I hope," she said.

 

Firefly seemed as disappointed as Killeen was to spend the morning working circuits of the yard and not out under the open sky, but she was too well-mannered to do anything but her best as they circled and turned and switched direction, working hard even if not running fast. Afterwards Killeen gave the mare a thorough grooming and herself a quick splash in the water trough and jogged up to the upper courtyard to tell Cullen the news.

 

He was putting a squad — _her_ squad, Killeen realised — through their paces in the training yard and she leant on the rail to watch.

 

One of the men saw her and sketched a salute. "When are you going to stop malingering, Loot?" he called.

 

"Who said that?" Cullen asked, and when a shuffling of feet was all the answer he got, demanded again, " _Who said tha_ t?"

 

The culprit raised a hand. "Me, ser, didn't mean nothing by it."

 

"Didn't mean anything by accusing —" Cullen started to say, and Killeen ducked under the rail.

 

"Word, Commander?" she said, and when he didn't turn but simply kept glaring at the unwary joker, Killeen put herself between them. "Commander. A word, by your leave, _ser_."

 

She wasn’t delighted to see the look of surprise that crisp acknowledgement of their relative rank got, but at least Cullen turned and walked with her away from the squad. As soon as they were out of earshot, he asked quietly, “Is everything all right?”

 

“Apart from you getting in the way of my relationship with my soldiers, ser?” Killeen asked, quietly but with an edge to her voice.

 

“Kill, you don’t have to —”

 

She put her hands behind her back, shoulders straight, and stared just past his ear with her best _talking to a superior officer who is being an idiot_ face. “We’re in the training yard, ser, and you’re the Commander, ser, and so I do have to. _Ser_.”

 

Cullen sighed a little. “All right. _Lieutenant_. What’s on your mind?”

 

“My squad don’t treat me with deference, ser,” Killeen said. “I’m one of them.”

 

“I can’t have a lack of respect for officers in my soldiers, Lieutenant,” Cullen said.

 

“And you think that letting them know you expect special treatment for the woman you’re fucking —” Cullen winced and opened his mouth but Killeen spoke over him without pause. “Is the way to ensure they respect me? Ser.”

 

“That isn’t —”

 

“That exactly is,” Killeen snapped. "You can't treat me any differently to anyone else! What do you think is going to happen when we get out there up to our arses in bandits or whatever and they’re thinking of me as the Commander’s skirt and not their Lieutenant?”

 

He looked away. “That, ah —”

 

_Oh, Andraste give me strength_. “Won’t happen because I’m never going to find myself anywhere dangerous again?”

 

His silence was an admission.

 

Killeen counted silently to five, getting a grip on her temper. “We talked about this.”

 

“We talked about you starting training again,” Cullen countered, and her grip slipped.

 

“Don’t you fucking parse logic with me like I’m some fucking Templar recruit asking questions about the Chant!” She jabbed him in the chest with one finger, forgetting his cuirass, and refused to wince at the jolt it sent up her wrist. “You know perfectly well I’m not spending my life patrolling the Maker forsaken _walls_!”

 

Cullen did look at her then, face set, amber eyes narrowed. “I’m the Commander, _Lieutenant_. Decisions about postings are mine.”

 

“Then make them as the _Commander_ , ser,” Killeen shot back. “Not the man who shares my bed.”

 

Cullen winced again. “Is that what I am?” he asked quietly.

 

“Tonight? No.” She turned away from him and started toward her squad, tossing back over her shoulder: “I’m going drinking with my soldiers. No need to wait up.”

 

It took several rounds, a couple of bawdy jokes, and her best Kirkwall story — the one about the three dwarfs and the nug farm — before her squad began to relax back into their old easy back-and-forth, and Killeen realised that she couldn’t entirely blame Cullen for it. _It’s been months_ , she thought, watching Asher and Norris placing bets on a pair of cockroaches scurrying across the floor. _Months of me being sick, and weeks since then when I’ve been too … **preoccupied** to think about anything but Cullen._

 

She hadn’t been the only one hurt in that last fight at Haven. Five out of thirty in her squad hadn’t returned, two would never fight again, three were still on the sick list.

 

_I didn’t even think about it._

 

Cullen and Lady Trevelyan would have excused her.

 

Killeen herself had a higher standard.

 

She hoisted the empty jug. “Another round!” she called to the bartender, to general applause.

 

Somewhere around the fifth jug of ale, the Iron Bull and the Chargers streamed in from their own training, and tables were shoved together, benches shoved aside, more drinks ordered. Killeen accepted a dare from Dalish, downed a mug of something that tasted like the inside of a well-worn boot and won two silvers when she managed to keep her jaw clamped on the liquid’s efforts to come back up again.

 

The evening got blurrier after that. One of her squad got into an argument with Grim that took the Iron Bull’s massive presence between the two to prevent a fist-fight — more ale was ordered — there was a competition involving a broomstick and a three-quarter’s full goblet that Krem won — Rocky and Norris joined Maryden for a surprisingly tuneful rendition of a song about _running through the fields with great strides_ — a full mug was in front of Killeen again and she drank —

 

The cool night air hit her like a slap in the face and she staggered, found herself held upright by the Iron Bull’s grip on her arm.

 

“Need to vomit?” he asked, and Killeen nodded, regretted it as the motion made the ground beneath her feet dip and swing. The Bull hauled her to the nearest shrubbery and braced her head with one huge hand on her forehead as she coughed and retched until she was utterly empty.

 

A space of darkness and then she was floating up a flight of stairs upside down, staring down at the Iron Bull’s muscular backside from an unfamiliar angle. An opening door — candlelight — the Bull saying something about _that ladder_ — more darkness and then she was falling, landing on something yielding with a bounce that made her stomach rebel again.

 

“Good luck,” said the Bull, and left.

 

A hand rolled her onto her side, a voice she didn’t want to recognise muttered _Maker_ as she vomited again. A cool cloth wiped her face, she was rolled again then rolled back onto clean, cool sheets.

 

“There’s a basin here, Kill,” Cullen said. “If you need it.”

 

“Won’t,” Killeen mumbled, as the bed beneath her settled to an uneasy, but tolerable, rocking.

 

A hand stroked her hair, freed the strands trapped beneath her cheek. “I’m sorry, Kill. I just —”

 

“An idiot,” Killeen said. “Just an idiot.”

 

“I might be an idiot,” Cullen said softly, “And only the man who shares your bed. But I’d like to continue to be that. If you don’t mind.”

 

“Idiot,” Killeen said, on the edge of sleep. “Angry. Love you. Idiot.”

 

She felt Cullen settle beside her, arm around her waist. “I’m an idiot,” he agreed. “And I love you.”

 

“Good, then,” Killeen said, and fell into sleep like stepping off a cliff.

 

Strong arms held her all the way down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the past week or so, I’ve been considering my planned plot in light of the opinions expressed in the comments. I’ve decided to go ahead with what I intended to do, although it won’t please everyone, and hope that I manage to pull it off. I am still going to stick to my ‘no spoilers’ policy, but if you’re one of the readers who has expressed distress over the topic of infertility, and you would like a spoiler to know whether you want to read on, you can head on over to https://www.fanfiction.net/u/155700/Gil-Shalos1 and PM me and ask for a spoiler.


	11. Outside The Walls - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen makes amends.

“Kill,” Cullen said. When she didn't stir, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Killeen. Wake up.” Nothing. “Turn out, soldier!”

 

Her eyes flew open and she rolled out of bed, then dropped to her knees and vomited into the bowl he’d left by the bedside last night. “Oh, Maker,” she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she sat back on her heels. “I’m dying.”

 

Cullen handed her a mug of water. “You can die later,” he said. “Right now, you've got five minutes before you’re late to the morning run.”

 

Kill gulped water, spat into the basin. "I don't have a morning run."

 

"I thought you wanted to get back to training?" Cullen asked innocently. "Of course, if you're not up to it ..."

 

"Bastard," Killeen said. She hauled herself to her feet and stood, hanging on to the bedhead, swaying slightly. "Oh, Maker, my head."

 

Cullen grinned. "Four minutes, now."

 

"Maker's withered scrotum," Kill muttered, and started hunting for her boots.

 

"Oh, and you might want to drink this," Cullen said, offering her the small vial he'd gone out to fetch earlier in the morning as Killeen snored.

 

She took it, regarded it with suspicion. "What is it?"

 

"Dorian's hangover remedy," Cullen said. "It seemed likely that anyone who regularly drinks with the Bull would have one that worked."

 

Killeen flicked out the cork and swallowed the potion with alacrity. "Thank you," she said.

 

"Purely self-interest," Cullen said, tossing her a clean shirt and pair of breeches. "You're unbearable when you're hung-over."

 

"You're not delightful when you're smug, either," Killeen said. She yanked off her shirt and breeches and stumbled naked to the washstand, plunging her head into the basin.

 

Cullen completely failed to resist the temptation to reach out and trace the long line of her spine with one finger. "We could always be late ..." he suggested as she resurfaced, shoving her wet hair out of her face with both hands.

 

Killeen grinned at him, Dorian's potion obviously starting to make inroads on her headache. "On my first day back? Not a chance." She pulled on her shirt, grabbed her breeches.

 

"Not even to thank me for putting you back on the roster?"

 

"Don't worry, Commander," Killeen said, heading for the ladder with her boots in one hand. "I'll thank you _properly_ later."

 

_And that_ , Cullen thought, his mouth suddenly dry, his cock inconveniently hard, _is why it never pays to mess with Killeen Hanmount._

 

He managed, with what felt like an effort of will equal to the one resisting lyrium had required, to keep his mind on his job and his eyes off Killeen's backside as he watched the squad pound up the stairway to the walls and start their circuit of the keep. He knew she had been working to regain her fitness and strength, running by herself, working with the weighted shields and swords they all used to build muscle and make their regular gear seem light: it had been what hat tipped the balance for him in the small hours of the morning, as he watched her sleep and wondered how to patch things between them, how to make up for hurting her so badly she’d felt the need to get as drunk as he’d ever seen her.

 

He could say _I love you_ until his voice failed him, but she needed to know that he meant _I love **you** , entirely and exactly as you are._

 

And she was a soldier, the best he’d ever fought beside or fought.

 

She was trailing at the rear of the squad when they reached the end of their first circuit, red-faced and sobbing for breath and even further behind at the end of the second. As the troops fell into ranks she stepped out of line, turned aside and vomited, wobbled as she straightened and took her place.

 

“Fall out, Lieutenant,” Cullen said. “Your fitness needs work.”

 

Killeen gave him one level look, as if knowing he was relieved to say it, then nodded, knowing that regardless, it was true, and stepped out of the ranks.

 

“Another circuit,” he ordered her. “Walking. And then work on the training dummies until I tell you to stop.”

 

“Yes, ser,” she said crisply, and headed up the steps again.

 

Cullen kept an eye on her at the dummies as he put the rest of the squad through their paces, restrained himself from ordering her to stop until the tremor of exhaustion in her arms was clearly visible. Then, finally, he could say, “Stand down for the day, Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, ser,” she said, letting the point of her training sword droop to the ground, and then, quiet and heartfelt, “Thank you, ser.”

 

“Thank me when you’re running those steps twenty times tomorrow,” Cullen said. “And meet me at the smithy at second bell.”

 

Killeen smiled. And then, being Killeen, she said softly, “I’ll just go and wash up, then,” and left Cullen to finish up the morning’s training with decidedly inconvenient thoughts of Killeen, naked and wet, slowly and leisurely soaping her breasts, her belly, between her legs …

 

She was waiting by the door to the undercroft when he reached the Great Hall, hair still damp. Cullen stopped with his hand on the door to the smithy, said softly, “If you want me to stop making decisions as the man who shares your bed, you’d better stop reminding me.”

 

Killeen winced. “Sorry,” she said.

 

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear, “I had a great deal of difficulty resisting the temptation to join you. Perhaps Dorian’s ideas about a proper bathhouse have some merit.”

 

Her cheeks flushed, eyes darkening, a hitch to her breath. “Cullen …”

 

He straightened, grinned at her. “Later, Lieutenant. Right now we have Inquisition business at hand.”

 

As he led the way down the stairs to the smithy, he was almost certain he heard her mutter _bastard_ under her breath, and thought smugly, _Two can play at that game, Lieutenant_.

 

Cullen had been specific in his instructions to Master Harritt, with the Inquisitor’s signature to back him up: whatever Killeen wanted, and whatever she didn’t know enough to ask for, in silverite, dragon bone, sea silk and whatever else Harritt thought appropriate. Equip her like _Lady Trevelyan herself_ , Cullen had said —

 

And he could see from the first glance at the armour hanging from the smith’s dummy that Harritt had taken him at his word. The scale coat looked, at first glance, to be iron or some other plain metal, until one caught its subtle gleam, the plates so fine it hung like leather. The sword and shield laid beside it caught the sunlight in sharp glints, and a little further away a broadsword and dagger lay glistening in the shadows.

 

Killeen approached the armour cautiously. She lifted one of the limp arms, and frowned. “It’s too light.”

 

“It’ll take whatever gets thrown at it,” Harritt said.

 

Killeen scoffed. “It’s barely heavier than leather!”

 

Cullen grinned. “Kill, it’s —”

 

Harritt interrupted him, offered Killeen a hammer. “Give it a test.” She took it, gave the mail coat a half-hearted tap, and Harritt snorted. “Put your back into it, lass.”

 

He couldn’t have chosen better words to provoke Kill: she drew back her arm and swung against the dummy with the whole strength of her body behind the blow.

 

The hammer rebounded hard enough to fly from her grip and bounce against the wall and Killeen swore, shaking her hand.

 

“It’s silverite,” Cullen finished.

 

“What by Andraste’s knickers is that?” Killeen asked, clamping her fingers under her armpit.

 

“Silverite with dragon bone plates sewn over snoufleur skin,” Harritt said. “The bone is from that dragon fell on you, actually. Seemed appropriate.”

 

Killeen lifted the hem of the coat gingerly. “How much does stuff like that _cost_?”

 

“Well within the Inquisition’s budget,” Cullen assured her, “especially now we control Emprise Du Lion. Try it on.”

 

“Oh, yes, so the whole army will be in it?” Killeen said.

 

“Eventually,” Cullen said, and when she shot him a disbelieving look, “Half Harding’s scouts are already, Kill. Although not reinforced with dragon bone.”

 

She took a step closer to him, lowered her voice. “So you’ve pushed me to the front of the line? I _told_ you, special treatment —”

 

“Kill.” He took her hands. “I want to keep you safe, but I know you won’t let me. At least let me make you _ready_.”

 

A long silence, her grey eyes steady on his. Cullen held his breath, let it out in a sigh of relief when she finally nodded, and stepped away from him to study the coat.

 

Cullen had seen it in progress, knew the warm leather lining concealed and cushioned thin, strong bone plates sewn so precisely they gave protection without restricting movement, that the hem fell low enough to overlap with the boots Harritt had made, that the split at front and back would allow Kill to ride easily. He watched her make the same discoveries, smiling at each exclamation of appreciation.

 

She tried on the boots, and once Harritt had approved their fit, the coat. It had an overlapping side closure, and once Killeen had slipped her arms into the sleeves, she was able to fasten the buckles herself. She shrugged her shoulders twice to settle it, swung her arms to test her range of movement. “It’s barely heavier than a winter coat,” she said, incredulously.

 

Cullen held her gauntlets for her to slip her hands in. “It’s a great deal stronger than one. Try your weapons.”

 

The scales of her armour moved like water as she turned and strode to the waiting sword and shield, exclaiming again at their lightness, murmuring approval over the keen edge to the blade.

 

“Stormheart and silverite,” Harritt said with satisfaction. “Holds an edge like nothing you’ve seen. You could chop wood with that sword and it wouldn’t mind.” A sharp look at Killeen. “Try it, though, and you’ll have me to answer to, lass.”

 

Killeen laughed, belting on the fine scabbard and sheathing the sword carefully. “I’ll treat it with every respect, Master Harritt,” she said.

 

“A knife for your boot,” Cullen said, offering it. “Balanced for throwing. And a broadsword, which you should work to get better with, if you’re going to be taking on Alpha Hurlocks. And — ” He set her helmet on her head. “Try to keep this one _on_.”

 

Harritt studied her. “Very nice,” he said judiciously. “Dagna did a bit of meddling, too. You’ll find those weapons do more damage than you might expect.”

 

_Very nice_ was not, in Cullen’s opinion, an adequate description. As Killeen hefted the broadsword, turning and lunging to test the balance, the scale coat swirled and flared around her legs, catching hints of sunlight, flowing along the strong, clean lines of her body. She looked sharp and keen and dangerous, as if she had walked straight out of one of Maryden’s ballads.

 

_In a way, she has,_ Cullen thought with a smile, remembering that Maryden was working on a new song about Killeen and Harding and the Alpha Hurlock. What Killeen would think of it, he had no idea, but he was looking forward to seeing her face when she first heard it.

 

She came to a halt, lowered the sword. “Thank you,” she said to Harritt. “It’s … I could never have imagined.”

 

Harritt grunted, but he looked pleased.

 

“Shall we give it a practical trial?” Cullen asked.

 

Killeen looked startled. “Sparring? But you said —”

 

Cullen shook his head. “No. You worked too hard this morning, even if you were fit, which you aren’t. No, I thought we could see how comfortable your gear is to ride in. Dennet told me yesterday he thinks Firefly is fit for some roadwork.”

 

Her delighted smile was all the answer he needed.

 

In the end, they didn’t ride very far — Killeen was cautious of exhausting Firefly on her first outing and Cullen was wary of tiring Killeen after the morning’s training. Away from the cooking fires and bustle of the keep, though, the mountain air was keen and sweet, the occasional call of a kestrel the only sound to break the silence.

 

As they turned for home, Killeen nudged Firefly closer to Steelheart, leaned over to brush Cullen’s cheek with her lips. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For my armour. For this morning. For this.” Then she grinned. “Also for cleaning up after me last night.”

 

“I don’t think we’re quite even yet,” Cullen said wryly.

 

“Oh, we’re not,” Killeen assured him. “You’re on bucket duty for the rest on my life, by my calculations.”

 

_The rest of my life_ … as they rode back to Skyhold, stabled the horses, and headed toward his office, Cullen thought that those words, dropped so casually, as if she didn’t even need to think about them, had made a good day into perfection. Days and weeks and months and _years_ ahead of them, not all perfect no doubt, but all of them, together like this, side by side, like this.

 

_The rest of my life._

 

His heart was too full to speak as he watched Killeen loosen the top buckle of her coat, scanning his desk for any urgent messages.

 

“Oh!” she said with delight. “Look — this must be from Fel!”

 

Coming to her side, he looked at the careful, wobbly handwriting on the outside of the folded parchment, _Commander Cullen Ser Bear and Kill_ , and smiled. “What does she say?”

 

Kill perched on the edge of his desk and broke the seal with her thumbnail. “She hopes we are in good health and spirits and —” She laughed. “And that Gerhart isn’t trying to pass off weevily flour again. Her family has settled in Redcliffe, and her mother is getting fat. She’s learned nearly all the names of medicinal herbs and where they grow, and is practising her swordplay every day, so we mustn’t worry about anything. She loves us both and wants to know when we’ll visit.”

 

“We could,” Cullen suggested, giving in to the temptation to unfasten the next buckle of her coat. “It’s not far.”

 

“And what about the paperwork?” Killeen asked.

 

“I _am_ getting better at delegating,” Cullen said, and when Killeen hooted with laughter, “I am! I’ve had to be, with … one thing and another. The Inquisition could manage without us for a few weeks. If anything urgent came up, Leliana could always reach us.”

 

“Mistress Nightingale could reach us at the bottom of the ocean,” Killeen agreed. “Cullen, are you trying to take my clothes off?”

 

“Yes,” he said, getting the next buckle loose. “And I think I’m succeeding.”

 

“Well,” Killeen said thoughtfully, “I _did_ promise this morning to thank you properly.” She slipped away from him. “Not down here, though. Come on.”

 

He followed her up the ladder to the loft, thinking _the rest of my life, like this._

 

_All the rest of my life, like this._


	12. Outside the Walls - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone gets what they want, and someone else gets what they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW
> 
> And back to where we came in! And yes, I know that in chapter two Killeen was wearing the wrong kind of armour. I will go back and fix sooner or later! Also, can anyone confirm, Cullen’s sister Mia lives in South Reach? And he hasn't seen his siblings since leaving for Templar training?

_The rest of my life, like this_ , Killeen had thought, riding side by side with Cullen across the roof of the world in the cool, fresh mountain air.

 

 _The rest of my life, like this_ , she thought now, riding alone.

 

Skyhold was a speck in the distance behind Killeen — if she didn’t turn Firefly soon, it would disappear.

 

_And it’s getting late._

 

Still, she let the mare amble onward. These long rides had done more for Firefly than anything else, and the mare’s gate only occasionally faltered now. _Another mile or so will do her good_ , Killeen told herself.

 

It was true — just not the whole truth. The whole truth included the awful moment this morning when she had seen Cullen’s face as he asked _How could you think I knew?_

 

It had been two wonderful months, every day a fresh delight of loving and being loved, touching and being touched, holding and being held. Never in her life had she been so happy — but she had been a fool to think it could last. Happy endings were for books, and beautiful women, not for the likes of her. 

  
And if she loved Cullen, and  _oh_ , she did so love him, how could she not want him to be happy? It was why, after all, she'd done her level best to encourage his budding romance with the Herald, because she wanted him to be happy; and why, now, the only thing for her to do was to go away somewhere, quietly, immediately, leaving him to meet and woo and fall in love with a woman who could give him what he wanted. _A family._   She had, not really thinking about it, filled Firefly’s saddlebags with more food that she would need for one meal, tucked away the little coin she had saved. They could simply not turn back, just carry on down the road toward Haven and beyond.

 

Yes, that was —

 

 _You dolt,_ she heard Cullen say. 

 

She'd pushed Cullen at the Herald out of the best of intentions — and to spare herself the pain of being absolutely, irrevocably rejected by him. And instead of making him happy, she'd caused them both months of misery.

 

She'd closed her eyes and turned her back rather than tell him  _Cullen, I love you, you've broken my heart_  so he wouldn't feel guilt over hurting her — and to save herself from humiliation. And instead of protecting him, she'd put him through weeks of guilt and the conviction that she'd come to hate him.

 

And what, exactly, had he said to her that morning? _I love you. It doesn't matter._

 

Even if it wasn't true that it didn't matter, it was most certainly true that he loved her. 

  
She had fought her way to the brink of the Breach by his side; had come through the blood and fire of Adamant fortress with him; together, they had survived his lyrium withdrawal and her long illness.

 

Talking was neither of their strong suits — but in her arms, he had admitted the worst of the nightmares that haunted him, the fears of both memories and imagination. Could she do less? Was she, who had single-handedly — if not actually  _killed_ , that was Harding's credit — fought an Alpha Hurlock and then survived a dying dragon falling on her — was she going to make an excuse, turn and run?

 

_No._

 

Killeen turned Firefly for home.

 

It was almost dark by the time they reached the gates, full dark once she had finished rubbing Firefly down, talking to her, praising her, reminding the mare how brave and beautiful she was.  She shed a few tears, too, against Firefly’s neck, then dried her eyes and pulled herself together and headed for the upper courtyard at a brisk, determined walk.

 

Her steps slowed, however, as she approached Cullen's office. For a moment, she raised her hand to knock — but she never knocked, had never knocked, and so instead she turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  
Cullen was at his desk, head bent over requisitions, a single candle burning beside him. In the low light, his hair was a darker gilt than by sunlight, half his face in shadow. She watched him a moment, remembering all the other times she had stood, like this, watched him, like this, thinking her feelings pointless and painful and unreturned, never speaking when a few words from either of them would have led to so much happiness for them both.

 

"You need more light to read by," she said at last. “At your age."

 

Cullen looked up, slowly, casually, betraying the fact that he'd known she was there. Killeen crossed to the shelf and fetched a taper, lighting it from the candle and taking the flame one by one to the sconces on the wall. "I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said. “I had some thinking to do."

 

"I wondered if you were coming back," Cullen said.

 

"I wondered too," Killeen admitted, and he winced a little. 

 

"I never meant to — Kill, I'd never want you to feel that there was anything —”

 

" _I_ never meant to mislead you," she said, perching on the edge of his desk. "It's been a given for so long. And we're still in the middle of all this. I just didn't think it was relevant."

 

“I’m glad you came back,” Cullen said. He smiled a little. “If I’d had to come after you and track you down, the paperwork would have gotten completely out of control by the time we returned.”

 

“Would you?” Killeen asked. “Come after me? Even knowing …?”

 

“ _Kill_ ,” he said. “Of course I would. I’d come after you and do everything I could to persuade you to come back to me. And if you wouldn’t, I’d follow you from place to place and keep trying. I don’t ever want to be without you and nothing’s changed that.”

 

“Good, then,” she said softly.

  
He touched her hand, gently, as if suddenly unsure of his welcome, and she turned her palm upward to meet his, laced her fingers through his. "What was the result?” he asked. “Of your thinking?"

 

"I don't know," Killeen admitted. “Except that I should come back.”

 

Cullen nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?"

 

"No,” Killeen said, and then clarified, “I mean, yes, but not now. I want to have dinner, and talk about how Firefly's doing, and whether the kinks in the supply chain to the Fallow Mire have been straightened out or if one of us is going to have to go out there personally."

 

"All right," he said quietly. 

 

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

 

“No,” he said, and smiled up at her. “I mean, yes, but not now. I want to have dinner, and get your opinion on the latest batch of recruits, and tell you about Fel’s latest letter.”

 

His beautiful face blurred and sparkled, seen through tears. “Maker, how I love you,” Killeen said in a rush.

 

Rising to his feet, he took her face between his hands. “Good, then,” he said, smoothing away her tears with his thumbs, and leaned in to kiss her gently. As always, the feel of his mouth on hers, the slight irregularity of the scar on his upper lip, the scratch of stubble against her cheek, started warmth building in her belly. She took hold of his cloak to draw him closer —

 

And he hesitated.

 

She loosened her grip and leaned back a little. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Cullen said immediately. “I just …”

 

 _Thought we were making a child_ , Killeen thought sadly, _when I thought we were making love._ “I understand.”

 

“You haven’t finished thinking,” Cullen said. “I don’t want to … I want to be fair.”

 

She searched his face for the lie and couldn’t find it. And it was so like Cullen, always so careful of her, tender and considerate in bed as if his own pleasure was a minor matter when set beside hers, eager but never forceful, restraining his strength and his desire — except that once, against the wall behind the tavern, when he’d taken her hard and fast and as if —

 

_As if he wanted me, and not just because he loves me._

 

But now, knowing the truth of her incompetent, imperfect body … _now_ he had no difficulty controlling himself.

 

He cupped her cheek. “Kill. What is it?”

 

She shook her head silently. How could she say _I wish you weren’t always so kind to me?_

 

But everything that had ever gone wrong between them was down to the things they hadn’t said.

 

“Cullen,” she said softly. “I want — I wish …” She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against his. “I just wish you wanted me more.”

 

“ _More_?” he said incredulously. “I’d be permanently priapic.”

 

“That night, in the tavern, I felt like —” She paused, and blurted, “As if you’d want me even if I were a stranger to you, not just because I’m the woman you love.”

 

He was very still for a moment. Killeen could feel the tension in the hand that still rested against her cheek, could sense it in the body so close to hers — the way he felt to her in the last moments before battle, all his coiled strength ready to be unleashed.

 

Then he turned abruptly away from her and strode to the door. _He can’t even be in the same room with me_ , Killeen thought miserably —

 

And Cullen shot the bolts home, spun back and crossed the distance between them in three rapid strides, so quickly Killeen instinctively moved back a little. Her hand brushed an ink bottle and sent it toppling to smash on the floor and she turned to look down, an apology on her lips.

 

Cullen reached past her, pinched out the candle with finger and thumb, and sent the rest of the litter of papers and bottles tumbling to the floor with a sweep of his arm. Killeen gasped as he seized her by the waist and then found herself on her back on the desk, Cullen on top of her. He kissed her hard, tongue demanding entry, his weight pinning her down as he yanked urgently at the buckles of her coat. They came free and he pushed it apart, hand finding her breast, settling his weight between her spread legs. His fingers on her nipple sent sparks shooting through her body and she moaned against his mouth, trying to adjust their position enough to press more closely again him as the throbbing heat between her legs mounted. Cullen was too heavy for her to manage it, though, and she squirmed helplessly. The desk was hard beneath her, the scales of her coat uncomfortable where it bunched under her back, but Cullen didn’t seem to care. He took hold of her shirt and tore it open, the eyelets giving with a rip, and then raised himself a little and looked down at her, panting.

 

“Kill …” he gasped, and she realised he was about to ask her if this was what she wanted, if she was all right, and that would be …

 

Would be tender, and sweet, and the last thing she wanted.

 

She arched her back, pressing against him, the friction of cloth between them a delicious torment, saw Cullen’s eyes darken and then he turned to pull off her boots. The back of her head hit the desk as he hoisted her hips and stripped her breeches and then he was on top of her again, the irregularities of his cuirass catching her nipples, almost painful, making her groan and writhe beneath him and then cry out as he reached between her legs.

 

Satisfied she was ready, he fumbled impatiently with his own breeches and then was on her and in her and filling her completely in a single hard thrust, holding her still with his weight and one hard hand on her waist, plunging his tongue into her mouth at the same urgent rhythm as his hips. It was too much, too hard, too fast, her own nerves stuttering and firing as he drove into her, her gathering climax faltering and surging.

 

“Harder,” she gasped, was silenced by his mouth. She had no way to brace herself and each forceful thrust ground her shoulders against the desk and tore a gasp from her as he began to move faster, harder, grunting with effort. She could feel his body tightening, his rhythm becoming erratic.

 

“Kill, I —” he panted.

 

“Yes,” she said, knowing the effect it always had on him, “Yes, please, please, _yes_.”

 

He spilled into her with a hoarse shout and fell gasping onto her chest. “Sorry,” he said breathlessly after a moment. “I couldn’t —”

 

“I didn’t want you to,” Killeen said.

 

“But you didn’t —”

 

“It’s all right,” she said softly, although her own orgasm was achingly, tantalisingly close, her nerves thrumming with unfulfilled need. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

 

Cullen raised himself on his elbow and ran his thumb over her tingling, swollen lips. “Did I hurt you?”

 

“You can rub salve on my bruises later,” Killeen said.

 

His hand traced the swell of her hip, drifted to between her legs. “I think perhaps I should rub something else first.”

 

She sighed and arched against his touch. “You said once — oh — wait, Cullen, wait.” He stopped, and she managed to gather her thoughts again. “You said you were curious about … I said that I’d imagined, pretended …”

 

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he said huskily, and Killeen laughed a little, replaced his fingers with her own.

 

“Did you ever think of me, like this?” she asked.

 

Cullen didn’t seem to be able to decide whether to watch her face or her hand, and the look on his face, lips parted, colour high, almost brought Killeen undone right then. “Yes,” he said. “All the time, in fact.”

 

She found the exact spot, the precise pressure, felt her whole body centred on that one point of exquisite tension. _Almost … almost …_ “Is it — oh — what you expected?” she panted.

 

“You are so much more than I knew enough to expect,” Cullen said, and the point of heat at her core contracted and then exploded through her with a force that blinded and deafened her, a long rolling detonation that doubled her up and would have taken her off the edge of the desk but for Cullen’s arm around her.

 

She came back to herself cradled against his chest, aftershocks still rippling through her. “Oh, Maker,” she said dazedly, and felt him chuckle. “I think you’re going to have to carry me up the ladder.”

 

“You cannot move your legs?” Cullen said slyly, and Killeen laughed. “I’m not sure mine will hold me, either.”

 

“Then we’ll have to stay here,” Killeen said. “At least we know it’ll hold our weight, even if it isn’t very comfortable.”

 

“I certainly didn’t have _this_ particular test in mind when I chose it,” Cullen said. “You do realise this is going to make strategic meetings with the squad leaders a little awkward, don’t you?”

 

“Worth it,” Killeen said, settling more comfortably against him.

 

“Kill,” Cullen said, “was that — is that how you’ve been wanting it to be? I thought —”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen, it’s always wonderful,” she said quickly. “It’s wonderful when you’re gentle and it’s wonderful when you’re not. Tonight I needed …”

 

His hand traced the length of her spine. “To know I find you irresistible?”

 

“Yes. Despite …” Her voice trailed off.

 

“Killeen, you dolt,” he said fondly. “I can’t imagine any circumstance in which I could see you without wanting to take your clothes off immediately.”

 

“Good,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

 

He stroked her hair. “So,” he said. “Tell me how Firefly’s doing.”


	13. In His Office - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen tries to be patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

In the days that followed, Cullen nearly raised the topic a dozen times — but Killeen was thinking things through, not ready to talk. She was still there, at least, a hopeful sign when he knew very well her first and strongest instinct was to run.

 

Or, if not _run_ — because the idea of Kill fleeing from anything, other than in a strategic and limited retreat, was absurd —

 

_It’s been two weeks since Killeen had saved his life, and Cullen knows he should have been to the infirmary to see how she’s doing, no matter how busy the Templars of Kirkwall are right now. A twinge of guilt at how easily it slipped from his list of priorities, but only a mild one — and that gives him pause at the door to the guards’ barracks, motionless until two men coming off patrol jostle past him and stir him from his thoughts._

 

_He is not the kind of man to let such a thing slip, not the kind of man to not much care that he had. It’s the sort of thing —_

 

_That older Templars do, he would have thought as a new recruit, except those older men were not many years past his own current age._

 

_He shakes off the sudden chill that touches his spine like the keen caress of Kirkwall’s winter wind, strides into the barracks, is directed to Kill’s quarters._

 

_She’s alone there, although there are six neatly made bunks and the small personal touches — a sketch of a woman’s face, a necklace hanging on a bedstead — show they have occupants, presumably out about their duties. Killeen is bent over a bowl of water, using the reflection as a mirror as she tugs at the bandages that cover half her face, stiff with dried blood._

 

_“Shouldn’t the healers do that?” Cullen asks, wincing with sympathy at how much peeling the cloth away must hurt._

 

_“I prefer to do it myself,” Kill says out of the corner of her mouth that can move. “At least I get to decide **when** it hurts.”_

 

_The last of the bandages come free and the wounds are, somehow, more shocking than they had been two weeks ago when she’d turned to him and said as calmly as if she were expressing a preference for wine over ale, Cullen, I think it took my eye. Then, he’d been armoured by adrenaline and battle calm, by the urgency of things that had to be done and no-one but himself to do them: steer her to the nearest pump, keeping a look-out for both of them; rinse the blood from her face until he could see enough of the wounds to reassure her that, no, she wasn’t going to be half-blinded; fashion enough of a bandage from her shirt to staunch the bleeding; get her to the infirmary through streets descending into nightmare, half-carrying her as shock and blood loss took their toll._

 

_Now, though, half-healed and swollen, the marks of the abomination’s claws are horrifying, and he breathes “Maker …” involuntarily._

 

_“Bad?” Kill asks._

 

_“It must hurt,” Cullen says, rather than, Yes, very bad, which is also the truth._

 

_The untouched side of her mouth quirks upward. “Only when I laugh.”_

 

At least _I_ get to decide when it hurts, she’d said, had cut herself out of his life when she’d thought he loved another, slammed the door on their friendship rather than wait to see if he’d shut it himself.

 

Had been how close he couldn’t calculate to doing the same thing again, that interminable day and evening he’d spent waiting in his office, listening for her step on the stairs, praying almost as desperately as he’d once beseeched the Maker for her life that Andraste would help Killeen love and trust him enough to come back.

 

And she had, hesitating in the doorway so long he’d found himself holding his breath — then made a crack about his age that said, beneath the words, _I’m still here. We’re still here._

 

Then stunned him with one sad little sentence. _I just wish you wanted me more._

 

Maker, how could she not know that he wanted her so much that he had to keep his desire on a tight leash lest he hurt her with his greater strength, so constantly that at that moment he needed all of his Templar-trained self-discipline to keep from laying her back on the desk —

 

_As if you’d want me even if I were a stranger to you,_ she’d whispered, and he’d suddenly remembered how satisfying, how reassuring it was in those moments when with lips and tongue he took her beyond the limits of her self-control, beyond even self-awareness as she trembled and pleaded and thrust against his mouth and he knew it was _his_ touch that drove her to incoherent cries, that it was _him_ she wanted so, beyond tenderness and even love, into the realm of pure, incandescent lust.

 

Deliberately, Cullen had let his self-discipline go, had taken her with only the barest consideration for her comfort, let alone her pleasure, with a selfish preoccupation that he would have been ashamed of except the burning need driving and consuming him had left no room for shame, no room for anything except the slick heat around his cock, the friction of her flesh as he buried himself in her again and again, no room for anything except _now_ , except _deeper, harder, more_ until sharp, sweet release took him over the precipice and sanity returned.

 

Had been unbearably relieved to hear her say _That was exactly what I wanted_ , despite the bruises he’d left, despite her own lack of climax.

 

He didn’t know if he had learned that women were more complicated than he’d imagined or that she was more like him in her needs and wants than he’d believed — but he _had_ learned, at least, that there were more ways for him to please her than he had known, more things that she needed from him than he had realised.

 

Would spend the rest of his life and hers learning all the ways to please her and all the things he could give her, if only she’d allow it.

 

For now, at least, she was still here: and with that, Cullen knew, he had to be content.

 

He didn’t want to be: wanted to know what was going through her mind as she lay beside him at night, eyes open in the dark; as she walked the walls during the day, gaze on the distant peaks, exercised Firefly, spent hours at the training dummies.

 

Want to _tell_ her what to think, tell her she could be sure and certain of his love for her, tell her to believe him when he said it didn’t matter.

 

But that, he knew, wouldn’t help.

 

Instead, he had her tea ready exactly as she liked it every morning; put her back into full training as soon as her fitness warranted it despite how little he liked the prospect of her facing blows in the sparring ring; made time to ride with her each afternoon; told her with every glance and touch and smile throughout the day how much he wanted to haul her back to his loft and spend the rest of the day making love to her.

 

Watching her frowning over requisitions one afternoon, for the first time Cullen wished the spirit Cole was still haunting the Keep, eavesdropping on thoughts, and not off on some errand of the Inquisitor’s, tracking down the vanished Elven mage Solas.

 

_Believe I love you, entirely and forever,_ he wanted to say to her.

 

Instead, he picked up the day’s mail, sorted through it. “Letter for you,” he said, holding it out.

 

Killeen took it, scanned the page. “My mother,” she said after a moment. “The usual — Jean is a disaster, and it’s all my fault for running off to Kirkwall instead of staying home and being a good example.”

 

“A disaster how?” Cullen asked. _Jean, who has just become a mother …_ he couldn’t guess at how Killeen felt about that, given her own situation. _Jealous? Vicariously pleased? Angry?_

 

“Unspecified,” Killeen said. “But on previous experience, I’d guess she’s making a fool of herself over some totally unsuitable man.”

 

“How,” Cullen said carefully, “is Thomas?”

 

Killeen frowned slightly. “Also unspecified. So I suppose he’s well. My mother can fill a page with the details of a summer cold, if her grandson was ailing she’d not hold back.”

 

“Have you thought about visiting them?”

 

Killeen snorted. “You’ve never met my mother, have you? No.” A sidelong glance. “Unless you’re trying to get rid of me.”

 

“I don’t know if that would work, since I was planning to come with you,” Cullen said mildly, and she smiled. “Here’s another letter from Fel. Her swordplay is improving, her mother is the meanest woman in the world, and when are we coming to visit?”

 

“Redcliffe and Denerim, you were thinking?” Killeen asked.

 

“I owe Mia a visit, too,” Cullen said. “Firefly’s fit for it. So are you.”

 

She frowned. “Can we be away that long?”

 

“Don’t be so practical,” Cullen said, and Killeen laughed.

 

“One of us has to be, Chantry boy. _You_ can’t even organise getting your roof fixed.”

 

“I like it like that,” he said. “It lets the moonlight in.”

 

“And the rain,” Killeen pointed out.

 

“Come away with me,” Cullen said. “I’ll arrange to have the roof fixed while we’re gone.”

 

“Bribery?” Killeen asked, eyebrows up. “I’m shocked, former Knight-Commander, _shocked_.”

 

“Surprisingly easily for a former Kirkwall Guard,” Cullen said dryly.

  
“I’m an innocent abroad,” Killeen said, with a wicked grin that made her look anything but innocent. “And here you are trying to lure me away to unknown parts, all on my defenceless lonesome …”

 

He hooked his ankle around the leg of her stool and dragged her close enough to kiss. “Is it working?” he whispered when they separated again.

 

“Definitely,” Killeen whispered back, and then straightened. “As soon as you come up with a reasonable delegation structure with all contingencies covered.”

 

“What if I delegate that to _you_?” Cullen asked.

 

“Well,” Killeen said judiciously, “If you want to take over sorting out this Maker forsaken mess in the last returns from the Hissing Wastes …”

 

“Oh, no,” Cullen said hastily. “I’ll do it. I’ll start this evening.”

 

Later, pouring over the personnel lists, he had second thoughts. It had gone against his nature to let others take on some of his responsibilities, some of Killeen’s, when she had been ill, but at the time, there had been no choice: trying to manage it all himself would have left him absolutely no time for Kill, and that had been utterly unacceptable. Now, though … he sighed. _Perhaps it is a foolish idea after all. Something to daydream about, but not to do._

 

Killeen leaned over his shoulder, pointed to a name. “Put him in charge of making sure Master Harritt gets the material he needs. Make Daria Connor the point of contact for the merchants. And Phillipe Ferrian’s father is a baker: he’ll make sure the kitchen supplies are good quality.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Now come to bed.”

 

Cullen tipped his head back to look up at her. “How are you so much smarter than me about this?”

 

“I’m not, you idiot,” she said. “I just have lower standards.”

 

“I’m glad they’re low enough to include me,” he said ruefully, and she laughed.

 

“No standard could possibly be high enough to exclude you, dear beautiful fool. And if you don’t come upstairs soon, I’m going to have to start without you.”

 

He hustled her up the ladder, both of them laughing, tugging at each other’s clothes as they tumbled onto the bed.


	14. By Firelight - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a conversation is begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

The breeze through the roof was chill, and Cullen pulled the blanket higher over Killeen’s shoulder. She curled closer to him, head on his chest, as he traced the old scar from a Carta dagger high on her back.

 

“We’ll have to start lighting the fire at night soon,” she said.

 

“I promise, I’ll get someone to fix the roof before it snows,” he said.

 

“You’ll have to.” Killeen kissed his chest. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you promised to always keep me warm.”

 

“I could warm you up right now, if you’d like,” he suggested, and she laughed.

 

“After that fall you took this morning in the ring? I’d have to do all the work.”

 

“I’m not _that_ sore,” he protested, although in truth he’d landed awkwardly and each time he moved every muscle from shoulder to hip reminded him of the fact. “Besides, you’re always telling me I need more practice delegating.”

 

Kill laughed again, a soundless shiver of humour through the body so gloriously, so amazingly pressed close against his own. “Cullen?”

 

“Yes?”

He felt her take a deep breath. "You said it didn't matter. But that's not true."

 

He had been waiting for this moment, for her to be ready to talk to him — and now it was here he realised that _he_ wasn’t ready for it, had no idea what to say to her. Had been so preoccupied with trying to gauge _her_ feelings, to shape _her_ decisions, that he had given scant consideration to his own.

 

 _I thought you knew I **can’t**_ , she had said, and remade everything he’d assumed about his future with six words.

 

 _No_ , he thought. _Not **everything**. Not the most important, the most precious thing._

 

Not the hope of a lifetime spent hearing her laugh, watching the changes time would bring to her face, sweetening her tea with honey and knowing that she’d never set her left foot on a flight of stairs first. Just — _everything else_.

  
Cullen realised he’d been silent too long. "No. It's not true. But it doesn't make any difference."

  
Killeen pulled away from him a little. “How can it not make a difference?" she asked. “It’s the whole rest of your life.”

 

“It makes a difference to my life,” Cullen said, turning to his side to look at her. “Not to how I feel about you, or how much I want to spend that life with you.” 

 

“But, I know ….” Killeen closed her eyes. “I know — I know you won’t be happy, without a family.”

 

“Killeen.” He took her hand. “I won’t be happy without _you_.”

 

“You could learn to be,” she persisted.

 

He wanted to forbid her to even think it, to contemplate for even a second a future in which they were apart. “I don’t _want_ to learn to be happy without you. Kill. Will you come back over here, please?”

 

She yielded to his gentle tug on her hand and settled back against his shoulder. “But what if there’s someone who you could love, who could give you children?”

 

Cullen sighed. “They’re not birthday presents, Kill,” he said with exasperation. “You don’t _give_ them to people. Besides, if I wanted someone to give me children I’d go to the Denerim slums and hold up a handful of gold. A dozen women would apply.”

 

She stiffened slightly. “Only because they’re desperate.”

 

“I know,” he said. “That was — forgive me. I meant — I didn’t fall in love with the mother of my children, who happened to be you. I love _you_.”

 

“You could get over me,” Killeen said. “People do, when things don’t work out.”

 

“Would you get over me?” Cullen asked.

 

“Never,” she said immediately. “Not as long as I lived.”

 

“Well, then,” he said. “Why do you think I’d get over you?”

 

“Because —” She fell silent, but they both heard the words unspoken: _because you’d have children._

 

“Nothing,” he said, “could make up for losing you.”

 

“But can I make up for losing _them_?” She raised herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. “Cullen. If … what if it’s something you always regret, always miss?”

 

It was too close to his own thoughts for him to find an easy answer. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

 

“Will you tell me, when you do?” she asked softly. “Even if the answer is yes?”

 

He closed his eyes against the look on her face. “I will.”

 

“Promise me,” Killeen insisted.

 

“I promise.” Cullen opened his eyes and reached up to cup her cheek. “If you promise me you won’t decide for both of us that it _is_ yes.”

 

She turned her head to kiss his palm. “All right.”

 

He made his voice light. “Don’t you go picking out another woman you think will make me happy, Killeen Hanmount. Look how that worked out _last_ time.”

 

Killeen smiled, and Cullen felt something loosen in his chest. She leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “It was a good plan.”

 

His arms tightened around her. “It was a _terrible_ plan.”

 

“Apart from a few details,” Killeen said defensively.

 

Cullen began to laugh. “Like me being in love with you and Lady Trevelyan being utterly otherwise inclined? Like those details?”

 

“I wanted you to be happy,” Killeen protested, but she started to laugh as well. “Maker, all that planning I did to get you two alone together …I can’t believe I picked bloody _flowers_ for you to give to her.”

 

“It was very sweet of you,” Cullen said. “In a completely idiotic way.”

 

She thumped his chest with her fist and he captured her hand before she could hit him again, tugged her close to kiss her and rolled them both over until she was beneath him, and —

 

His back gave an eye-wateringly sharp twinge of protest and he hissed in pain, froze in place.

 

“Don’t tell me you really _have_ put your back out,” Killeen said, and then, when he didn’t deny it, quickly wriggled from beneath him and slipped her arm beneath his shoulders, taking his weight and easing some of the strain on the protesting muscles. “I’ve got you. Can you roll this way? There you go.” She eased him down to lie on his face, rose to her knees and studied his back. “Andraste’s frilly knickers, Cullen, that’s a hell of a bruise. Why didn’t you go to the healer straight away?”

 

“It didn’t feel that bad,” he mumbled with his face against the sheet. “Until I’d been sitting for a while.”

 

Fingers traced his back gently, finding the worst of the knots. “Idiot,” she said tenderly. “Lie still.” Her hands left him and he felt the mattress bounce as she got up. Wood clattered, flint scraped steel, and light bloomed suddenly from the direction of the fireplace. “The cold in here likely didn’t help,” Killeen pointed out, from the sound of it rummaging in the chest at the foot of the bed.

 

“I’ll get the roof fixed,” Cullen said.

 

“ _I’ll_ get the roof fixed,” Killeen said. He heard the lid come off a jar and smelt the sharp, fresh tang of medicinal salve as she crawled back onto the bed and straddled his thighs. “That way it will actually get _done_ instead of talked about.” The salve was cold but her hands were warm as she spread it over his back with smooth, sure strokes, and the fire was beginning to take the chill from the room. “You know,” she said, starting to massage the salve in, “this bruise is almost the exact shape of Lake Celestine.”

 

“Damn,” Cullen said. “I was trying for Lake Calenhad.” The salve was working, the pain easing under her steady, certain touch. He started to roll over. “Thank you —”

 

Killeen put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not finished.” He sank back as she found the worst of the strained muscles, hissed in pain as she began to work to loosen the knot. It _hurt_ , and he was about to tell her to stop when something eased and suddenly it began to hurt much less. He sighed in relief. “Better?” Kill asked.

 

“Much. How did you learn to do that?”

 

She turned her attention to another sore spot. “For a few years in the guard, I had a sergeant who was from Orlais. On the run, probably.” Cullen could feel each taut muscle relaxing as she worked on it, a sense of well-being which was only partly relief from pain spreading through his body from each place she touched. “She had exotic ideas, and one of them was to get us a trainer who’d been a slave in the Imperium before he shucked his collar and headed south.” The last aching sinew surrendered to her ministrations, but she didn’t stop, hands moving to his shoulders, her soft, even voice and slow, firm touch almost hypnotic. “He used to do this for us, when we were injured, or had been training hard.”

 

“And he taught you?” Cullen asked, feeling himself not quite asleep, not entirely awake, half-dreaming as Killeen massaged one arm, then the other, finding tiny strains and aches he’d been hardly aware of and releasing them.

 

“A little. Mostly, I just paid attention,” she said, shifting down the bed to work on his legs. His cock stirred at the feel of her fingers on his thighs, his buttocks, warmth beginning to build in his belly, but without urgency, as if even his desire had given in as her touch insisted that he _relax_ , be _still_. “Roll over.” Obediently, he turned into his back, and she knelt above him, face intent with concentration as she worked on the muscles of his chest.

 

He wanted to touch her, to brush back the smooth hank of hair that hung over her face, to cup her breast and thumb her rosy nipple into hardness, and at the same time was content to lie still, limp and boneless beneath her hands. When she whispered, “Good?” he could only summon a wordless murmur of assent, floating serenely suspended as if in one of the Inquisitor’s bubbles of slowed time.

 

Killeen worked her way down his body again, without touching his now-rigid cock, until every muscle in his body had yielded to her fingers, until the crackle of the fire and the pattern of the moonlight through the leaves seemed very far away compared to the feeling of her fingers on his skin, the steady pulse that sounded in his ears and throbbed in his cock.

 

She knelt above him again. “Good?”

 

“Mmmm …” he managed. He wanted … wanted to feel her around him, wanted that moment of calm anticipation to last forever, wanted to pull her to him, wanted to lie motionless in this timeless space without past or future until the world ended.

 

And now, at last, she took his cock in her hand, smooth strokes from base to tip. There was still salve on her fingers and it tingled oddly, but not unpleasantly. He sighed, wanting to thrust against her hand, unable to command his muscles to obey him. She touched herself with her other hand, stroking at the same easy pace, and then straddled him again, lowering herself on to him slowly, inch by inch.

 

“Yes …” she murmured, sinking down to take him completely inside her. Cullen could feel the beat of her heart echoed through the muscles surrounding him, his own pulse matching hers as she paused, motionless, looking down at him. “So beautiful,” she whispered, and then arched her back, leaning back to take her weight on her arms. “Oh. Oh. _Oh_.”

 

He could feel her pulsing around him as she held utterly still, a contraction and release that built, slowly, steadily, as her breath and his came faster, as warmth grew inexorably to heat, spiralling gradually higher, closer, together …

 

 _So beautiful_ , he thought, looking up at her bowed body, breasts silhouetted between moonlight and firelight, the long line of her flank and the smooth swell of her hip. _So beautiful_.

 

Killeen raised herself and sank back again, her movements unhurried and deliberate, taking him deeper inside her and then deeper still, rocked against him, once, twice, a third time, and Cullen gasped and came, a soft and gentle release that eased out of him as she sighed and spasmed around him, the rolling pressure of her climax draining him utterly.

 

She lowered herself to rest against his chest. “Good?” she asked again.

 

Cullen raised his arm slowly to circle her shoulders, having to concentrate intensely to do it. “Good,” he said, floating on the edge of unconsciousness. “Kill —”

 

“Tomorrow,” she said softly. “Go to sleep.”

 

He did.


	15. In His Imagination - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great deal more conversation.

Cullen woke slowly the next day, from as deep and peaceful a sleep as he could ever remember. The bed was empty, the sunlight falling through the leaves showing that the day was well advanced. Kill had obviously decided to let him sleep through training, and he had to admit she was probably right — he needed a day or two on the sick-list or he’d risk making those strained muscles worse.

 

He stretched, cautiously, found his back sore but tolerably so, and rose and dressed. When he descended the ladder, he found Killeen in his chair, coat open but still on, drinking tea and reading mail.

 

“How’s the back?” she asked, holding out a folded parchment to him.

 

“Much better. Thank you.” He recognised the script the address was written in as his sister Mia’s, and opened it quickly, scanning, as he always did, for words and phrases that meant the letter bore bad news: like _sorry_ and _unfortunately_ and _it is my sad duty_. Seeing none, he hitched a hip on the edge of the desk and began to read it properly.

 

“How’s your delegation plan coming along?” Killeen asked, finishing her tea and setting the mug down.

 

Cullen reached over to hook the teapot from the brazier, refilled her mug and then set the pot back and picked up the honey. “Nearly finished. But, ah —” He held up the letter. “We’ll have to delay the trip a little.”

 

Kill’s eyes narrowed. “What’s happened?” she asked.

 

“Nothing bad,” he assured her. “This is from Mia — she’s given up waiting for me to visit and is coming to Skyhold. Will already be on her way, I imagine, given the date on this.”

 

Killeen frowned, and for a moment Cullen thought it was at the prospect of meeting his sister, and then she asked, “Alone?”

 

“With a merchant caravan, well guarded,” Cullen said, and Kill’s face cleared. “Mia has always been eminently sensible.”

 

She grinned up at him, then leaned back in his chair and crossed her ankles on the desk. “Pity it doesn’t run in the family.”

 

“So she tells me, frequently,” Cullen said dryly.

 

“Cullen … she does know about me, doesn’t she?” Killeen asked.

 

He was startled. “Of course! At least, some things.” He frowned. “Doesn’t your family know about me?”

 

“I sincerely doubt it,” Kill said, “since they only know I’m in Skyhold from the return address on the banker’s notes I send them.”

 

“You’ll have to tell Mia that,” Cullen said, “and make her see that I’m a model correspondent.” He rested his hand on her crossed ankles, encircled one with his fingers. “Why don’t you write? You talk about them all the time. I feel almost as if I know them.”

 

Her gaze slid away from his. “Talking _about_ them makes for amusing stories. Talking _to_ them, less amusing.”

 

Although she hadn’t moved from her relaxed pose, he could feel tension in the muscles beneath his hand. “Well, Mia knows about you. At least, all the parts fit for publication.” _And that wouldn’t give her something else, someone else, to worry about._

 

It won him a chuckle. “Good. A girl likes to have _some_ privacy.” Killeen paused. “Cullen, are you going to tell her?”

 

Cullen didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she meant. “No. It’s not anyone’s business but ours.” 

 

“And you want her to think well of me,” Killeen said.

 

“She already thinks well of you, Kill.” He held out the letter to her. “See?”

 

Slowly, she took it, bent her head to read. Cullen watched the dimmed glow of the sunlight outside gleam on her hair, fingers tracing the bone of her ankle, waiting for her to reach the paragraph he wanted her to read. _You sound happy. It's been — never mind. I’m just so very glad to hear you sound like yourself again. From the way you write about her, I suspect this Killeen of yours is the reason. I refuse to wait any longer to meet her. And thank her. Your loving sister, Mia._

 

Killeen looked up, and he smiled down at her. “You see?”

 

“She sounds very nice, your sister,” she said cautiously.

 

“Unless you beat her at chess,” Cullen said, and Killeen laughed.

 

“No fear of that. Do you think …” A deep breath. “If you had … is that what you imagine, in the future, a family like yours, writing letters like these?”

 

He took her hand, tugged her to her feet and then into the circle of his arms. “I’d hoped so.”

 

She rested her head against his shoulder. “What else did it hold, this imaginary future of yours?"

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cullen said. “Don’t torment yourself, Kill.”

 

“I’m not,” she said, surprising him by how matter-of-fact she sounded. “I want to know. I want you to tell me.”

 

"I suppose, ah …” Cullen paused. It hadn’t been a detailed plan, more a vague assumption, but he tried to flesh it out in response to her question. “A house. Somewhere. Not a city, perhaps a small town. Some sort of work — my father was a miller, I know the business a little."

  
"And me, in an apron, baking bead?" Killeen said, and Cullen snorted at the image.  

  
"Hardly. Terrorising our suppliers and customers, more likely." _Running the whole enterprise with terrifying efficiency_ — he realised he could easily imagine Kill as a coolly competent merchant, had much more trouble thinking of her as a doting mother breathlessly recounting an infant’s first steps.  

 

She wound her arms around his neck. "Cullen, do you really see either of us leaving the Inquisition in the near future? Really?"

 

"Well, no, not really," he had to admit. "Then, ah. Not a house. One of those suites of rooms they're clearing out and fixing up in the lower courtyard."

  
"And am I spending my days running around wiping noses and bottoms while you repair to the peace and quiet of the War Room and sweep in each evening once all the hard work is done?"

  
"Actually," Cullen said, "I rather imagined it the other way around."

 

"You did not," Killeen said with a snort.

 

"Perhaps not quite." Cullen conceded. "But, you know, I could get better at delegating.”

 

“You could hardly get worse,” she pointed out. "You haven't actually thought this through at all, have you?"

 

"I have!” he protested. “I mean — not exactly, but — "

 

Her fingers caressed the back of his neck, twined in his hair. "Cullen, it's all right," she said. "I'm glad you haven't. I wondered if you had our whole future mapped out in excruciating detail and I admit, I wasn't very happy with the idea."

 

"Oh," he said, relieved that the true answer was also, apparently, the right one. “Well, then. No. I haven't thought it through. I expected we'd talk about it, eventually. And I did, I admit, have certain assumptions about where we'd start, when we did talk about it."

 

“I don’t mind that, so much,” Killeen said. She leaned back a little to look at him, fingers tracing his temple, his cheek. “So long as you haven’t picked out names for our imaginary children.”

 

“No.” Her touch trailed along his jaw and he pulled her a little closer. “Can we talk about this upstairs?”

 

“No,” Killeen said, “because you and I both know that _talking_ is not what we’d be doing.”

 

“Then can you stop doing that so I can pay attention to what you’re saying?” Cullen asked plaintively, and Killeen laughed and stepped back.

 

“Let’s take a walk,” she said, reaching for her cloak.

 

Despite the keenness of the autumn wind, the sun was pleasant. They paced along the top of the wall, side by side, in silence for a while, and then Killeen said, “I did a lot of thinking last night.”

 

“Oh?” Cullen asked cautiously.

 

“What you said about Denerim.”

 

“I didn’t mean —” he said quickly.

 

“I know what you didn’t mean,” Killeen said reassuringly, reaching out to brush the back of his hand with her fingers. “But … there are orphans, and not just in Denerim. Would you, could you — a child not … not _yours_?”

 

_Yes_ , he wanted to say instantly, _yes, Kill, yes, you see, it makes no difference to me, it doesn’t matter._

 

Was it true, though? He closed his eyes, tried to imagine an infant, a child, a young man — a face where he’d see no echo of his own, no trace of Killeen. Would that young man be his _son_ , or just his _ward_?

 

Then thought of Fel, fingers tangled in the fur of his cloak. _Tell me a story, Ser Bear._

 

“Yes,” he said. “I could, and I would, Kill.”

 

“Then there have to be certain ground rules." Killeen held up one hand, raised a finger. "First. You have to find a way — _we'd_ have to find a way — to do all this that doesn't involve me turning into a housewife."

 

"I — " Cullen started.

 

Killeen shook her head. "Hush. Not finished.” She turned to walk backwards a few steps, eyes steady on his. "I mean a real way, Cullen, an actual plan, not vague good intentions that will go the way of your intentions to get that bloody roof fixed. A plan that meets _my_ approval."

 

"All right," Cullen said. They reached the next tower, and Killeen paused, leaning on the battlement, looking out over the distant peaks.

 

Then held up her hand again, a second finger joining the first. "We have to find a way to decide things we don't agree on. Tossing a coin or something. I am not spending the rest of my life arguing with you over whether Little Whatsit is or isn't old enough to play stickball without adult supervision."

 

Cullen leaned beside her. "We wouldn't really do that, would we?" he asked, trying to remember his parents ever disagreeing on anything to do with his siblings.

 

" _My_ parents did," Killeen said. Third finger. "Next."

 

"This is turning into a military campaign," Cullen said, smiling.

 

Killeen elbowed him in the ribs. "If you're suggesting that the next twenty years of my life deserves less attention to detail than you'd spare for a two squad skirmish against under-equipped bandits ..."

 

"No, I am not, was not —”

 

"Good. Third. Are they going to be little Rutherfords or little Hanmounts or some combination?" At his look of incomprehension, she sighed. "Cullen. My name, or yours?"

 

And he realised, quite suddenly, that he had not, in fact, ever asked her the question that had been on his lips when he'd seen her in the camp after their retreat from Haven, the question that would make her third point moot. _Marry me, Killeen Hanmount._ It had not been the time; it had never been the time, and then he had spent so long thinking that, of course, her answer would be no. Had again almost asked her, that morning in the garden, when the pellucid stillness of the dawning day was shattered by Corypheus tearing open a new Breach into the Fade; had, in the weeks since they had finally found their way to each other, been so utterly, absorbingly content with things as they were the thought had not even crossed his mind except as something he would do, one day, when he found the perfect way to do so.

 

And Maker, he couldn't ask her right now! He hadn't even a troth ring to give her — she’d think he was only trying to influence her decision, or that it was contingent on what she chose.

 

He would find a ring, he would find the perfect moment, soon, but for now —

 

"Can we table that one?" he asked.

 

"We can table all of them," Killeen said. "We're just talking."

 

"What's fourth?" Cullen asked, and Killeen laughed.

 

" _You_ will be changing the lion's share of the diapers."

 

'We're not exactly poor," Cullen said. "I'm sure someone could be paid to do it."

 

"You sleep in a room without stairs or a roof, Cullen. Your idea of 'poor' may not be realistic."

 

"No, I mean, genuinely," he said, laughing. "There's been quite a lot of money flowing into the Inquisition and Lady Trevelyan has been generous. I mean, not ruby and emerald dancing shoes generous, but we're well off. Which could help with your first stipulation, too. If you're planning on us living in Skyhold, cooking and laundry stop being an issue. A nurse for a child, I have no idea what one pays as wages, but I'm sure it's possible."

 

She turned to study his face. "But you'd expect me to stop fighting."

  
Cullen hesitated. "I can't say I like the idea." he said. "But I can't say I like it now, anyway."

 

She poked him sharply in the chest. "You know, I wasn't exactly filled with boundless delight to find you up to your armpits in demons in Adamant, either."

 

"We could both be more —"

  
Killeen glared at him. " _Don't say it_!"

 

" _Strategic_ " Cullen finished, and she relaxed. "If. _If_ this is ever more than talk, we could both be more strategic."

 

"If it'll keep you out of the front line," Killeen said, "I'll head down to the lower camp immediately and see if anyone's got a spare kid." She paused. "That is what we're talking about, isn't it? An orphan, or ..."

 

It was, and yet, Cullen realised, it wasn’t, not entirely.

 

"Are you _certain_?” he asked. "Have you talked to a healer about it since? Just because the make-potion in Kirkwall didn't know a remedy, doesn't mean there isn’t one. She might even have been wrong, you know." 

 

A long, long silence, while he cursed himself for saying it. "That's true," Kill said cautiously, at last.

 

"We're just talking," Cullen said gently. "You don't have to find out, if you don't want." And yet … if it _was_ possible, if there _were_ some remedy, if the barrier was her unwillingness rather than inability … Maker, would it fester between them? _Yes_ , he was afraid the answer was, _yes_.

 

Killeen sighed. "It's not — it's just. I'm so used to the idea."

 

"And it's frightening," he suggested, thinking back to his childhood in Honnleath, men and children banished from a house where a woman screamed in pain as she brought a new life into the world — screamed, and on one occasion, died.  “It can be dangerous, and not the kind of danger you can stick a sword into.”

 

She turned her head, pressed a kiss to the point of his shoulder, a kiss he couldn’t feel through the armour between them. "That too."

 

Thinking of it, of Kill’s voice raised in that agony, of Kill’s life at risk, Cullen found himself far more ambivalent than he’d thought at the prospect of her bearing his child. "There _are_ many children in need of homes, after the Breach, and the civil war, and the Mage Rebellion," he said. 

 

"But you'd rather your own."

 

_A son, a daughter, with my mother’s eyes, my father’s smile_ … with _Killeen’s_ eyes, with _Killeen’s_ smile. "I'd rather  _our_ own," Cullen said, honestly, even though he knew it would hurt her.

 

"Oh," Killeen said thoughtfully.

 

He reached out to brush her arm with his fingers. “I want children _with you_ ,” he said. “And yes, I assumed they’d come into our lives the usual way. And I’d prefer it, if they did. But if that’s not possible, there are other ways.” He paused. “Do you, though? Want to be a mother?”

 

“I certainly don’t want to be _my_ mother,” Killeen said dryly, surprising Cullen into a chuckle. “I honestly don’t know, Cullen. It’s not something I’ve ever considered as being possibly part of my life. But … neither was _this_. And it’s good.”

 

“You don’t have to make any decisions yet,” Cullen pointed out. “ _We_ don’t have to make any decisions yet. Kill, you know … I’ve no evidence that _I’m_ capable of fatherhood. More than a decade of lyrium … it might not be possible, whatever the healers say about _you_.”

 

“Well, I’m mildly relieved not to face the prospect of any step-sons or step-daughters,” Killeen said. “Or, to be accurate, not to face the prospect of having to run off the _mothers_ of any step-sons or step-daughters. But I’ve read everything in the library about lyrium, and there’s nothing that suggests you need to worry.”

 

“Still,” he said. “I should talk to the healers, too. We both can.” He drew her into his arms, rested his forehead against hers. “Kill. You told me to tell you if the answer was _yes, I’d regret it_. If you don’t want to, then you don’t want to, but I’m frightened that for me, that would make the answer _yes_.”

 

“Would it be _yes_ if the healers tell us that there’s nothing to be done?” Kill asked.

 

“No,” Cullen said, for the first time utterly certain of it. He took her face between his hands, tipped her head up to make sure she was looking at him and could see the truth in his eyes. “No, never, Kill. If our life isn’t how I expected it to be, then it isn’t. But —”

 

“If we want our lives to be different things, that’s another,” she said softly. “That’s how I feel when you try to get me to stop being a soldier.”

 

“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re back on the roster.”

 

“You took your time about it,” Killeen said. “Cullen — I want you to be happy. I want _us_ to be happy. But I need time, too.”

 

“Yes.” _Maybe, perhaps, I need time_ … he’d take it, in preference to _no_.

 

“Although neither of us is getting any younger,” Killeen said. “I found a grey hair yesterday.”

 

“Just one?” Cullen asked, and she snorted. “Take your time, Kill. Just — could you do at least some of your thinking out loud, this time? For my sake?”

 

“All right,” she said. “One more thing, though …”

 

“Yes?” Cullen said, willing to agree to anything.

 

Killeen leaned back to look up at him. “You are absolutely, completely, utterly forbidden from trying to teach it any jokes.”

 

He smiled. “If you are absolutely, utterly, forevermore forbidden from teaching any child of ours how to sing.”

 

“Deal,” she said, and, careless of onlookers, sealed it with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so super dialogue heavy! Thrills, spills and chills, rather than just talky-talk, coming in the chapters ahead.


	16. In The Mail - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen makes a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains non-detailed passing reference to unspecified children being theoretically harmed. (Would pass the editorial policy of a daily newspaper, so no trigger warning added to the work). 
> 
> I’m going off the wikia which says Cullen has an older brother and two younger sisters. However, I am aware of other places where he’s one of five, and Mia is older than he is. If anyone can resolve this for me, I’d be grateful.

Two days passed. Cullen — cautiously — resumed training. Killeen — hesitantly — did at least some of her thinking out loud, for his benefit. Whispered against his shoulder in the dark, as he had once confessed his fears to her with his lips against her skin, _what if I’m terrible at it? What if I’m a terrible mother?_

 

“I’ll tell you,” Cullen promised. “I’ll help you.”

 

“How?”

 

“My mother … she wasn’t perfect. She lost her temper, sometimes — with four of us, I’m surprised not more often — but she loved us. Cherished us.” He kissed the top of her head. “I know what it looks like. I know how it works, a family.”

 

“What if I don’t love it?” Kill whispered. “Not everyone loves their children.”

 

“I’ve watched you with Fel,” Cullen said. “You’ll love any child in your life, Kill, however it comes there.”

 

“You can’t be sure of that.”

 

“Trust me,” he said.

 

Killeen snorted. “Last time I trusted you I ended up freezing my tits off and up to my arse in demons.”

 

“And it all worked out in the end,” he said blithely and felt her shake with laughter.

 

“I’d like the rest of my life to work out in the end with fewer explosions and rather more cake,” Killeen said.

 

Cullen traced the line of her spine. “Then one of us is going to have to learn to bake.”

 

“I vote you,” Killeen said promptly, and then: “Doesn’t it scare you? At all?”

 

“Baking?” he asked, and she thumped his chest lightly with one fist. “Ouch. No. The thought of you being hurt again, frightens me. The thought of any child we might have being hurt, frightens me. The thought of doing something, saying something, that makes you decide to leave, frightens me.”

 

She raised her head a little. “You couldn’t.”

 

“I nearly did last week,” he pointed out.

 

“I came back,” she said, resting her hand over his heart.

 

“You did.” Cullen paused. “Will you always?”

 

“Yes,” she said, firmly, the tone of _Killeen Hanmount having made a non-negotiable decision_. “I will always come back to you, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, across all Thedas and through the Void itself, until you tell me otherwise.” She stretched up to kiss him. “And I’ll talk to the healers tomorrow.”

 

“Do you want me to come with you?”

 

“No.” She kissed him again. “I want to know how I feel about what they say before I tell you.”

 

He _wanted_ to be with her, wanted her to want him to be with her, to celebrate if it was good news, to comfort each other if it was bad. But, he thought uneasily, _I want to know how I feel_ sounded to him as if she had not yet made up her mind what would be good news, and which bad.

 

There was nothing for him to do but agree.

 

When, the next day, he returned to his office after an interminable discussion of Chantry politics that Lady Montilyet was convinced had crucial implications for the Inquisition, and found it empty, the day’s mail spread across his desk, he assumed that she was still at the healers — until he heard a footfall in the loft.

 

Climbing the ladder, he found Killeen with the contents of her chest scattered over the bed, her pack in her hand.

 

_Whatever they said, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, Kill,_ please, he thought, opened his mouth to speak and then saw her face as she turned. She did not look angry, or miserable, or frightened, nor was she wearing the smooth blank expression she used to hide her deepest distress.

 

_Irritated_ , he realised, exactly as if she’d just learned they’d been short-weighted on sugar. _Profoundly irritated._

 

“What is it?” he asked, and Kill looked up.

 

“Jean,” she said. She shoved her spare shirt and breeches into her pack, and then pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket and held it out to him.

 

Cullen took it, the word _kidnapped_ leaping out at him, the phrase _and little Thomas_. “I’ll get the Inquisitor and Lady Montilyet. Fetch Leliana and meet us in the War Room.”

 

“It’s hardly an Inquisition —” Killeen started, still packing.

 

He took her by the shoulders, forced her to stop. “Kill. I’m the Commander of the Inquisition’s military, you’re my second in command and the woman I love, and someone has taken your sister and nephew. There is no way that is mere coincidence. This is an attack on the Inquisition and _will_ be met as such.”

 

“Cullen, she hasn’t been _kidnapped_ ,” Killeen said. “She took her best clothes and all her jewellery. She’s likely run off with some lute-player, my mother can’t admit it, and so she’s decided it’s a kidnapping.”

 

“But you’re unsure enough of that to be packing to go and see,” he pointed out, reading the letter more closely. Kill was right: the few details her mother gave, in amidst a tide of recrimination,  _did_ sound much more like a woman leaving of her own free will.

 

“I’m packing because it’s one thing for Jean to be throwing herself on the dubious mercy of some greasy lout,” Killeen said, “and quite another for her to hauling a child along. Cullen, what do you think will happen when he tires of her? Or tells her that he loves her, but another man’s child is a different matter?”

 

“She’ll go home to your parents, surely?”

 

“And if they’ve left Denerim? Jean’s never been outside the city walls in her life. I doubt she _knows_ anyone who’s been outside the city walls, apart from me. What if he takes her to Val Royeaux, or Jader, or Maker forbid, further?”

 

“She’ll be alone, without money, without friends,” Cullen realised.

 

Killeen checked her dagger, thrust it in her boot. “You know what can happen to a woman in those circumstances. You know what can happen to a _child_ in those circumstances.”

 

Cullen did. He’d lived in Kirkwall for years, couldn’t help but know, felt his gut tighten at the thought of Killeen’s nephew falling into the hands of one of the gangs who maimed and crippled children to make them more successful beggars. _Or worse._ “What if your mother _isn’t_ wrong?” Cullen asked. “Kill. Let me help.”

 

“If you want to help,” Killeen said, “find out. Find _her_ , if the Spymaster can manage it. Send word.”

 

“Leliana can send word,” Cullen said. “I’m coming with you.”

 

“You _can’t,_ ” Killeen said. “Mia.”

 

He shook his head. “She can —”

 

Killeen crossed to him, took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. “You haven’t seen her in a decade and a half. Don’t wait longer just because my sister is a fool. That’s my problem to deal with, not yours. It won’t take long. My mother probably knows who he is and where they’re heading, if she’d only let herself admit it.”

 

“Don’t go alone,” Cullen said, giving in. “Take — Norris and Fraser. A remount in case Firefly tires. Full kit, two pack horses for supplies. And draw finance, and make it double whatever you think you need, in case.” She nodded. “And Kill, use your good sense. _Please_.”

 

“Always,” she promised, pulled him close for one last, urgent, hungry kiss —

 

And was gone.


	17. On The Road - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen rides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been able to work out how far things are apart in Thedas and therefore, how long travel between them ought to take. I am, therefore, going to continue with my fine tradition of “vagueing it right up”.  
> Also, from here on, the different POV chapters run along parallel timelines, but not at the same speed.

_18 August  - 4 Kingsway_

* * *

 

The road spooled past, eaten up by Firefly’s steady pace.

 

Killeen would have been faster, alone, was impatient with the slower pack-horses and her companion’s mounts — although Master Dennet had given them the very best — but she knew Cullen had been right, had made exactly the stipulations she would have insisted on herself if their positions were reversed.

 

She’d been about to head down to the healers when the messenger had brought the mail — had not allowed herself to consider whether she was relieved or disappointed to have a more pressing matter to attend to.

 

Cullen had said, _if you don’t want to, then you don’t want to, but I’m frightened that for me …_

 

The healers would confirm what she had always known, of course. Cullen would be disappointed — _I’d rather our own,_ he’d said, and she’d realised he was still holding on to the hope of a child of his body, a hope that her visit to the healers would crush. She herself didn’t know from one moment to the next if she would be disappointed to be irrevocably informed that she could never give him this one thing he so wanted or relieved to learn there was no possibility she would have to try. A child in her life, that was one thing, a manageable thing with a nurse and with a keep full of young families who could watch it for them when needed: a child growing inside her own body, changing and stretching it, turning her from a soldier into a mother, that was a whole different proposition.

 

As little as Killeen wanted to bear bad news to Cullen, at least then they could talk, could plan, on the firm ground of _what is_ rather than the unstable bog of _what if_.

 

 _When I get back_ , she thought, and dismissed the whole train of thought.

 

The three of them travelled fast, slept in their bedrolls beneath the stars more often than in a road-side inn, all of them hardened to the soldier’s discipline of forced marches. If Jean _had_ left Denerim, Killeen knew, that discipline would allow them to overtake her — _and let it please the Maker that it be before anything happens to her or to Thomas._

 

She didn’t let herself dwell on the possibility that, if not _taken_ , Jean might have been _lured_ : that it was not casual cruelty she had to fear, but deliberate malice. Not against the Inquisition, whatever Cullen said — he saw grand strategic issues everywhere — but against a pretty girl, a helpless child.

 

_Either of whom might fetch a fine price in the Imperium._

 

She did not dwell on it, but still, she rose queasy with fear each morning, fell into her bedroll at night exhausted with the weight of it.

 

They rode north along Lake Calenhad’s shores, and at intervals along the road, one of Leliana’s scouts would rise from cover. Cullen had clearly been as good as his word to turn the resources of the Inquisition to the task, although each time, the scout had no word except that Sister Nightingale had told them to be ready.

 

“Ask Nightingale if there are any Tevinter slavers operating in Denerim,” Killeen finally told one.

 

Word came back the next day: _Unlikely_. And then, a scrap of parchment handed up to her, tight-rolled from being wrapped around a raven’s leg: _Nightingale believes they took ship to Kirkwall. Meet your own transport at Highever._

 

“Fucking _Kirkwall_ ,” Killeen said. “Of all the shit-holes she could pick, fucking _Kirkwall_.”

 

“Any message back, ser?” the scout asked.

 

“Say —” _Cullen, I love you, I miss you, I wish you were with me, I wish I was with you, I wish my sister wasn’t such a Blighted fool_ … “Thank you. We’re on our way.”

 

At least it removed any reason to visit Denerim, to interrogate her mother on what the woman knew or guessed. Killeen wondered if it had changed, if the rebuilding after the end of the Blight had made any difference to the cramped streets, the over-flowing sewers, if Queen Anora cared any more for the plight of the poor and desperate than her predecessors.

 

She hadn’t been back to find out, hadn’t been back since the day she boarded a ship for Kirkwall herself, far younger than Jean was now but not, she was sure, nearly so foolish. Had chosen Kirkwall on the basis of an overheard conversation in the tavern where she served nights, _the Kirkwall Guard is hiring_ , had saved as many of the pennies she earned until she had passage, told her parents as a fact, not a request, been unsurprised and undeterred when her mother utterly forbade it.

 

 _How am I supposed to manage Jean without you?_ her mother had cried.

 

Killeen stared at the road between Firefly’s ears. _No-one can manage Jean,_ she’d said, and walked out of the house without looking back.

 

Had it really been true? Or would she have made a difference in Jean’s life if she’d stayed?

 

Would she and Cullen find themselves as utterly bewildered, as helpless to guide their child, to shape its life, as her parents had been?

 

 _Cullen has three siblings,_ she reassured herself. _And they all four of them seem to have turned out all right. Even if I have no idea how to do this, **he** does._

 

 _I know what a family looks like_ , he’d said, as if _family_ meant something different, something better, than just people who were forced by circumstances of birth to live beneath the same roof.

 

They reached Highever in the teeth of a gale and located the captain of the ship Cullen had arranged in the dockside tavern. The weather, he assured them, would clear by the next day, and they’d go out with the tide at dawn. No horses, though — his ship, _Andraste’s Flame,_ was a courier, not built for livestock transport.

 

Killeen found stabling for their mounts and told Norris he’d be staying behind in Highever to oversee their care until she and Fraser returned or someone else from the Inquisition came for them. He was not best pleased, but Killeen was immovable. Any of Dennet’s horses would be a temptation to a struggling hostelry owner, Firefly most of all. She would not take the risk of returning to some false story about colic covering the quick and secret sale of her mare.

 

She was surprised, given Cullen had surely known they were bound here, to find no letter from him — but then, even an express rider would have had difficulty overtaking the pace they’d set, and doubtless Leliana’s ravens were limited in what they could bear.

 

Back at the inn, she paid the innkeeper for parchment, ink, and a quill that had seen better days.

 

 _Dear Cullen,_ she wrote, and then sat staring at the page until the ink-block dried and she had to dampen it again. What could she say? She had no confidence a seal would be respected, even if she’d had one — and she didn’t.

 

She tore the top off the parchment and held the strip of paper bearing his name to the candle-flame until it was ash.

 

Began again.

 

_Ser Bear,_

 

_We take ship in the morning. All are well. I would be more comfortable if there were more than N here to keep an eye on my girl and her friends. I hope to conclude matters quickly and return soon._

 

She paused.

 

_There are other things I could say here were this not official correspondence and likely to be read by Nightingale. Consider them said. Yours, KH. PS: I make allowances for our speed of travel and reserve judgement on the justice of your sister’s opinion._

 

He could be in no doubt of her meaning, knowing as he already did where she was bound, and how, and the names of those with her — and the reference to Mia’s complaints at the scarcity of his correspondence would reassure him that she wrote uncoerced.

 

She folded it three times, and went to give it to Norris, to be sent back to Skyhold as securely as possible, should opportunity allow.

 

 


	18. In A Distant Mirror - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen has a visitor

_18 August_

* * *

 

At the rap on his office door, Cullen expected the day's mail. "Come in," he said without looking up from his paperwork, because it would hardly do for the Commander of the Inquisition to be seen tearing the post from the messenger’s hand, searching for word from his second-in-command. He heard the door open —

Heard a woman say, "Well, that's a fine welcome after we've come all this way."

A woman's voice, now, not a girl's, but he'd have known it anywhere, was instantly thirteen years old again and grinning over a chessboard at his first, and always toughest, opponent. _Mia_.

He looked up and, dislocatingly, saw a stranger, blinked and saw his father's smile, the brown eyes he knew from the mirror, blinked once more and recognised the skinny adolescent girl inside the tall, ample-figured woman in front of him.

"I expected you tomorrow," he said absurdly, rising to his feet.

"Evidently," Mia said. She took a step toward him — he took one to meet her — and then her arms were around his neck. "Oh, Cullen, it's been so long, so long!"

He returned her embrace, gently, careful of the hard planes of his armour. "I know. Forgive me."

"Always. Even when you don't deserve it." Mia pulled away from him, studying his face. "Let me look at you. Flames, you're all grown up!"

"You're all grown up too," he pointed out, realising he was grinning like a fool and not much caring.

"I'd still know you anywhere," Mia said. "Although Maker knows I'd never have thought you'd have turned out this handsome! You look so much like Mother, now. And so tall! I think you’re even taller than Gareth. And — oh — " she touched his face, the scar on his cheek and lip. "What have they done to you?"

"I tripped and fell onto a wine glass," Cullen said, and her look of disbelief. "It's true. There was a donkey involved."

Mia giggled. "Of course there was! Oh, Cullen!" She flung her arms around him again.

Over her shoulder, Cullen saw another shockingly familiar face, a boy of about twelve years old, blond and wiry, a face he’d seen reflected in the surface of the lake near Honnleath as he spent long hours hanging off the end of the jetty with a fishing line in his hands.

At his intake of breath, Mia turned. “This is my eldest,” she said. “Your nephew. Stanton, come and say hello to your Uncle Cullen.”

The boy stepped forward, held out his hand. “Hello, ser,” he said, a little nervously.

Cullen shook it. “Hello.” He glanced at Mia. “Stanton?”

She shrugged a little. “I missed you.”

Belatedly, manners returned. “Have you — ah, have you eaten?”

“Yes,” Mia said, and with a glance at the empty bowl from his luncheon stew among the papers on his desk, “and so have you, obviously. Do they not even give you time to eat?”

“Of course they do,” Cullen said. “It’s habit.”

“Do you sleep at your desk, too?” Mia asked.

“No, I sleep upstairs.” Cullen indicated the ladder.

“Maker, I hope you don’t expect _us_ to sleep up there!” Mia said. “I couldn’t possibly climb that!”

“I could,” Stanton said, and promptly demonstrated. He paused at the top. “You’ve got a tree in your bedroom.”

“A tree?” Mia asked disbelievingly.

“Coming through the hole in the roof,” Stanton said, sliding back down.

“It, ah, haven’t gotten around to …” Cullen said.

“So you eat here, in your office,” Mia said. “And sleep upstairs, at the top of a ladder with a hole in the roof.”

“It’s easier,” Cullen said a little defensively.

“And this Killeen of yours allows it?” Mia asked with a sniff.

“She —” _sleeps there too_. He glanced at Stanton. “Eats with me, here, usually, when we don’t both go to the mess hall. And she’s always reminding me to fix the roof.”

“Well, at least she has _some_ sense,” Mia said. She smiled. “Enough sense to see the worth in _you_.”

Cullen blushed. “Mia …”

“Hush, you’re my little brother. I’m allowed.” She looked around. “Where is she? I want to meet her.”

“Not here,” Cullen said.

“Obviously …”

“Not in Skyhold,” he clarified. “A family matter took her away unexpectedly. She was very sorry not to be here to meet you.” That, perhaps, was gilding the lily, but certainly, Kill hadn’t _planned_ to be away.

“Oh,” Mia said, disappointed, and then rallied. “You’ll have to tell me _all_ about her, then.”

“I, ah — would you like to see the Keep?” Cullen said. “Stanton? Would you like to see the armoury and the stables?”

“Yes, ser,” Stanton said happily.

“Then, this way.” Cullen offered his arm to Mia, and when she took it, escorted her out onto the walls.

She shivered. “Flames, it’s cold up here. But beautiful. And the Inquisition! There’s almost a city outside the walls, with all the wagons and tents and people!”

“It’s a problem,” Cullen agreed. “We haven’t room for more inside the walls, and it’s difficult to protect those outside. And yet people keep coming, to trade, to join …”

“You won,” Mia said pragmatically. “Everyone wants to be on the winning side.”

“Down here,” Cullen said, turning her toward the stairs. She clutched his arm as they descended, and he was reminded for the first time in many months of the steepness of Skyhold’s staircases, the irregularity in many of the ancient steps — and reminded, too, as he had been when she had seen the ladder, that this was no longer the fearless girl with plaits and skinned knees he had said goodbye to all those years ago — nor was she, as so many of the women he knew now were, a soldier or at least a fearless adventurer willing to try her luck in the Inquisition’s desperate cause.

A married woman, a settled farmwife, a mother of five.

“How is everyone in South Reach?” Cullen asked as they reached the lower courtyard and turned toward the stables, Stanton running ahead to hang on the yard rail and gaze enraptured at Dennet’s horses.

“The same as they were last time I wrote,” Mia said. “And you know how they are because _I_ write, Cullen, proper letters with information in them. How is everyone here in Skyhold? How are _you_?”

“I’m well,” he assured her as they came level with Stanton. “I would have written more, but there’s been little time.”

“Dear Mia, I am alive, your loving brother, Cullen,” Mia said. “Dear Mia, I am well and happy, your loving brother, Cullen. Dear Mia, I am to be married, your loving brother, Cullen. All of a minute and a half.”

“You are getting ahead of yourself with that last,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uncle Cullen, ser, which one is yours?” Stanton asked.

Grateful for the distraction, Cullen pointed out Steelheart. “Later, I’ll take you for a ride on him.” From the boy’s expression, he had attained hero status for life.

“Getting ahead of myself?” Mia asked, refusing to be distracted. “Don’t tell me she turned you down?”

“No!” Cullen said. “I, ah —”

“Haven’t asked her? Oh, Cullen! What on earth are you waiting for?”

“Mia, do we have to talk about this now? Here?” Cullen asked plaintively.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Mia said cheerfully. “We can talk about it over dinner. Which I am _not_ eating in your office. I want to meet _all_ your friends.”

“Ah, yes. Of course,” Cullen said with some trepidation.

 _Entirely justified trepidation_ , he thought some hours later as Mia poked him in the ribs at the mess table, and asked, “So why _haven’t_ you asked her to marry you?”

“Because,” Cullen said, “I’ve been waiting for —”

“Because Curly’s hopeless,” Varric said cheerfully. He noticed Stanton staring at him, and winked. “Hey, kid. Never met a dwarf before?”

Stanton jerked his eyes back to his plate. “No, ser. Sorry, ser.”

“At least you’ve got manners about it. Now get a look at _this_. Hey, Tiny! Get your ass over here and meet Curly’s nephew!”

The boy’s mouth dropped open as the massive, horned shape of the Iron Bull loomed over the table. “Hey,” the Bull said casually, offering a massive hand. With a convulsive swallow, Stanton took it.

“Hey,” he squeaked.

“Well done,” Cullen said quietly to him.

“So,” the Bull said, swinging a leg over the bench and sitting. “What’re we talking about?”

“Curly being hopeless.”

“That again,” the Bull said.

“I am not, that is,” Cullen said. “I — I have tried to find a troth ring, but none of the ones the merchants have seems quite —”

“You do not buy a ring to ask a woman to be your wife from the merchants in the courtyard,” Cassandra said from further down the table.

“I don’t?” Cullen asked.

“No. You must have one specially made, to a design that perfectly reflects her character. Preferably set with a stone you have yourself retrieved from the depths of a forgotten temple, enchanted with ancient wards.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, tried to recollect the location of any forgotten temples in the vicinity of Skyhold. “And what, ah, design should that be?”

“ _I_ do not know,” Cassandra said. “ _You_ are the one who had been bedding her twice daily.”

Cullen felt his face flame and Mia, just too late, clapped her hands over Stanton’s ears. “So, ah. Precious gem, unique design.”

“And poetry,” Cassandra said firmly.

Varric laughed. “Seeker, have you _met_ Killer? She’s about as poetic as a nug.” He refilled his wine goblet. “No, the best way to ask _her_ to marry you, Curly, is on the point of a sword.”

“I don’t think,” Mia said, “that at sword-point is the most romantic option.”

“Not _at sword-point_ ,” Varric said. “Get the ring, put it over the point of your sword, make some joke about her being your perfect scabbard — Killer will love that.”

“Why scabbard?” Stanton asked.

“Never mind,” Cullen said firmly.

“You’re both wrong,” the Bull said firmly. “If you’re going to do this human marriage crap, you should put the ring on the end of your d— ”

“ _Bull_ ,” Cullen said, feeling his face heat until it must surely be scarlet. “Maker’s breath, man!”

“ _Tongue_ ,” Sera said, sitting up from beneath the bench where she’d been lying. “End of your tongue, tit.” She made a V with her fingers, framed her mouth, and by Andraste’s mercy passed out again before she got any further.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” the Bull said, draining his mug. “Just don’t lose it in her.”

“I’m beginning to see,” Mia said pertly, “what Cullen’s problem is. All of _you_ , confusing him.”

And then blinked as everyone else at the table apart from Stanton and Cullen roared with laughter.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Varric said when he could speak, wiping his eyes. “But listen, Wheatsheaf, your brother’s problems go _way_ deeper than that.”

“Do we really have to …?” Cullen said.

“Oh, yes, Curly. We really have to.” Varric propped his elbow on the table, settling in to his storyteller pose. “It all started back in Haven …”

“They won’t kill Ser Calenhad,” Cole said, appearing on the top of the table, causing even Varric to start and Mia to give a tiny scream and pull Stanton closer to her.

“It’s all right,” Cullen said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “This is Cole, he’s …” _A spirit. A creature of the Fade._ “Um. Friendly.”

“Where have you been, kid?” Varric said. “Did you find Chuckles?”

“No,” Cole said. He turned to look at Cullen. “They won’t kill Ser Calenhad, I won’t let them. Ser Bear and Kill won’t let them, and I know the way.”

“ _Fel_?” Cullen found himself on his feet.

“Running, hiding, keep off the roads except at night,” Cole said. “It’s a long way but I’m not scared. I’ll kick any monsters in their soft bits.”

And then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, leaving Cullen with questions that urgently demanded answers, such as _where is she, exactly_? and _What ruffian calling himself by Calenhad Theirin’s name has lured her away from her home and parents?_

“Maker’s _balls_ ,” Cullen said, understanding for the first time exactly why Killeen insisted on what she called _proper swearing_. “Mia, excuse me — Lady Cassandra, can you show my sister and her son to the guest quarters?” Cassandra nodded. “Mia, there’s a child in danger —I must talk to the Inquisitor — ”

“Go,” she said.

 


	19. In Memory - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen takes ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t find any precise indication of when, during the ten years between DA:O and DA:I, Cullen went to Kirkwall: I am head-canoning that it wasn’t instantly. Also, I am making stuff up about certain details of Kirkwall’s geography.  
> Apologies, but updates will be slower for the next few weeks!

_5th Kingsway - 8th Kingsway_

* * *

 

 

_Oh, Maker, kill me now._

 

Killeen hung over the rail of the _Flame_ and retched miserably. She’d been sick both times she’d been to sea before, travelling to Kirkwall ten years earlier and then back last year, but she couldn’t remember being _this_ sick.

 

Of course, time had dulled the memory of that awful crossing from Denerim to Kirkwall, and last year she’d had Cullen to distract her. He’d been cool and distant since Lady Cassandra had recruited him, and coming up with curses inventive enough to break that reserve, to make him blush and protest _Kill, for the Maker’s sake_ , had given her something to think about besides the rocking of the boat, the lift and crash of the waves, the uneasy shifting of the deck —

 

Killeen heaved and retched again, stomach utterly empty, spat bile into the foam-flecked sea. Her skin prickled with cold sweat and her head swam.

 

Fraser, indecently cheerful, worked his way along the rail. “You okay, Loot?” he asked. “You’re kind of pale.”

 

“I’m dying,” Killeen said, and retched again.

 

“Captain says we’ll be there in a few hours,” Fraser said encouragingly.

 

“I’m not … ugh … going to live that long,” Killeen said.

 

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

 

“Kill me,” she said. “That’s an order.”

 

“Can’t do it, Loot,” he said. “Commander’d have my arse.”

 

“Fuck the Commander,” Killeen said.

 

“I hear that’s _your_ job,” Fraser said with a grin.

 

 _Now?_ Killeen thought miserably. _I have to deal with this now?_ She gathered herself. “Less a job, more a hobby,” she croaked.

 

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Fraser said. “I’ve no objection to us getting all the plum assignments from now on.”

 

“Fraser,” Killeen said, and had to pause to cough bile into the waves. “Commander Cullen travelled with me from Kirkwall to Jader. If he was handing out plum assignments, do you really think —” The ship plunged down a wave and she clung to the rail and moaned softly. “Do you really think he’d put _me_ on a fucking _boat_?”

 

Whatever Fraser said in response, Killeen didn’t hear it, her empty stomach trying again to turn itself inside out.

 

When they finally reached Kirkwall harbour, she could hardly walk — staggered to the Hanged Man, which was mercifully still where she remembered it to be, followed by Fraser — rented a room and fell face down on the bed, Fraser beside her, and passed out.

 

Woke still nauseous the next morning and sipped small beer as Fraser demolished his breakfast and her own.

 

“Where to first, ser?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

 

“The barracks,” Killeen said.

 

The fastest route from the Hanged Man to the Viscount’s Keep took them along Blood Lane, where the butchers had their shops, through Tallow Yard with its candlemakers and then up the stairs to the wide outlook of Stock Street with its warehouses and depots. Killeen took the last few stairs without really thinking, turned left past the storehouse of Kirkwall’s biggest oil merchant and stepped into memory.

 

 _There are few things less pleasant than standing in full armour in the summer sun. Standing in full armour in the summer sun waiting for a barrel of oil to explode into flames two feet away has to be one of the, though, Killeen thinks._ You’re good with people, _Kill, her squad leader had said._ You talk to him.

 

_Thank you very fucking much, ser._

 

_She wipes sweat from her eyes. "Nothing terrible will happen to your son," she says through the keyhole. "He'll be safe. It's to make sure he's safe that he has to go."_

 

 _"I've heard what they do there!" the man on the other side of the door shouts, and Killeen closes her eyes a moment. She's heard the same rumours, scurrilous gossip about abuses and cruelty that seem to grow with each passing year._  

 

_Seem, lately, to have more weight and heft to them than mere rumours should._

 

_But she is in nowise going to admit to the man behind the door that she suspects his fears for his son might not be groundless, not while he is holding a lit lantern above a barrel of oil and threatening a detonation that will kill them both, and his son and wife, and quite possibly trigger an explosion in the warehouse next door that will flatten half the street._

 

_She opens her eyes again and finds herself looking into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes she has ever seen in her life, warm and steady and lit with flecks of amber, realises in the next second that they are set in a face so gorgeously handsome it doesn't seem quite real, and sees in the third that the perfectly sculpted lips are parting to speak._

 

_Covers them with her fingers before he can make any sound which will alert the man inside that she is no longer alone._

 

_He nods understanding, retreats noiselessly, and she watches him stride away, recognising the Templar armour now, certain she can have never seen this perfect creature before, not without remembering the easy grace of his stride, the burnished gilt of his hair._

 

_“Ser,” she says through the door, bracing her hands on her knees against the cramp that’s seizing her back at her awkward posture, bent to speak through the keyhole. “Benon. May I call you Benon? I’m Killeen.”_

 

_“All right,” Benon says after a moment._

 

_“Benon. Is everyone all right in there? Is anyone hurt?”_

 

_“No.” A pause. “Please, just leave us alone! My son is fine! He’s not possessed, or anything!”_

 

Not yet, _Killeen thinks. “I can’t, Benon. Not until I see that everyone’s all right. You know I can’t.”_

 

 _The beautiful man is back, holding a slate. He gives it to her, and she reads in a script that manages elegance even scratched in chalk,_ What do you need?

 

 _Offers her the chalk and she rubs out his words, scrawls —_ help clear street. Douse joining wall _._

 

_He nods, then takes his water bottle from his belt and puts it in her hands._

 

_In the long hours that follow, as Killeen coaxes and cajoles, she sees him occasionally, striding back and forth across the street, sees the Templars with him carrying buckets, helping hold back the suicidally curious onlookers, helping carry aged and infirm residents out of nearby houses — work they’d usually disdain as beneath their elevated status._

 

_“I promise you, Benon, I’ll make sure he’s safe,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time._

 

_“You can’t!” he retorts, the same sticking point, because it’s true. The Guard has no remit inside the Circle._

 

_Killeen looks up, beckons to the Templar with the absurdly handsome face, sees him start toward her.“What if a Templar promised?” she asks._

 

_“They always promise! They always lie!”_

 

 _“What if one made a promise you could believe?” Killeen holds out her hand for the slate and the Templar gives it to her. She writes_ On your honour — mean it, _underlines twice. The Templar reads, nods. “Will you at least listen, Benon?”_

 

_Long, long pause. “All right.”_

 

_“He’s coming over now,” Killeen says, although the Templar is in fact standing next to her. She gives him a sharp look, hoping he’s up to this, hoping that the judgement she’s reached on the scant evidence of his being willing to get his hands dirty with real work, and of his thinking to give a thirsty guard his own water is correct. “Here he is.”_

 

_The Templar kneels down to bring his mouth to the level of the keyhole. “I am Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford,” he says in a light, even voice. “You have my word no harm will come to your son.”_

 

_“The word of a Templar!” Benon scoffs._

 

_“Ser,” Cullen says, “may the Void take me if I fail him. I swear to you on my honour as a Templar, and on my honour as a man. I will protect him.” His words have the unmistakable ring of truth._

 

_And it is, finally, over. The bolts scrape back, the door opens. Killeen takes the lantern and pinches the flame between finger and thumb, not even feeling the sear of heat, Cullen has Benon held against the wall, there are guards and Templars all around them._

 

_Killeen sits down on the floor, fumbles with buckles and lacing, and to the Void with the regulations, drags her cuirass off, on duty as she is, unfastens her arming doublet. Her shirt is sodden with sweat and she tugs it away from her neck, letting the air circulate, thinking that as long as she lives nothing will ever again feel as good._

 

_Cullen, leading the mage boy away, arm protectively around his shoulders, pauses, looks down at her._

 

_“That was well done,” they say at the same instant. Killeen laughs._

 

_Cullen smiles._

 

_Killeen feels her heart stop, just for an instant, and then Cullen turns away with Benon’s son and is gone._

 

“Ser?” Fraser said, and Killeen blinked, realised she was stock still in the street.

 

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just —” she could hardly say _remembering the moment I fell in love with Cullen Rutherford_ , wasn’t entirely sure it was exactly true anyway. _Was that the moment? Was it when I first saw him? When he gave me water on a hot day?_ “Woolgathering. Let’s go.”

 

As she strode into the keep and then into the barracks memory flooded back once more. The same smell, lamp-oil and sweat, armour-polish and leather, seasoned with the piquant hint of backed-up drains and sun-rotted guano from the infestation of gulls on the rear wall.

 

Same faces, too, many of them. Killeen found her hand rising in automatic salute at the sight of her old sergeant, jerked it back to her side.

 

He gave her a sardonic smile, looked her up and down, taking in the close-fitting mail and the fine weapons. “Risen in the world, have we?”

 

Nerves fired with the instinct to stand at attention. Killeen ignored them with an effort. “Not so you’d notice,” she said casually. “I still answer to others. Is Captain Aveline around?”

 

“In her office,” he said, and then, after a moment’s consideration, “Ser.”

 

Familiar stairs, familiar turns … she rapped on the Guard Captain’s door, heard Aveline call _Come in,_ and opened it, with a glance at Fraser that let him know to wait outside.

 

Aveline was standing behind her desk, studying the roster on the wall. _She hasn’t changed at all_ , Killeen thought, and then smiled at herself. _Of course she hasn’t. It’s been less than a year._ The fact that her own life had been so utterly turned upside down, had settled itself into a new, gloriously unexpected pattern, in a few short months, made Kirkwall feel at times to be a lifetime ag _o._

 

“Guard Captain?” she said, and the other woman turned with a smile on her handsome face.

 

“Killeen Hanmount! Come to ask for your job back?”

 

“No,” Killeen said.

 

“Shame, I could use you,” Aveline said. “Take a seat.” She settled into her own chair as Killeen sat. “What brings the Inquisition to Kirkwall?”

 

Despite the easy greeting, it was far from a casual question, and the Guard Captain’s eyes were steady and wary.

 

“Personal matter,” Killeen hastened to assure her. “I’m not the Inquisition, not here.”

 

Aveline gave her a single nod, relaxed almost imperceptibly. “So?”

 

“I’m here looking for a woman,” Killeen said. If their positions had been reversed, _One in particular?_ would have been her quick response, but Aveline just nodded, and waited. “Twenty-three, dark hair, name of Jean. Jean Hanmount. Would have arrived by ship, from Denerim, about a fortnight ago.”

 

Aveline made a note. “Sister?”

 

“Yeah. And she’s probably travelling with a child, little boy called Thomas, about six months old.” Killeen paused. “Probably with a man, too.”

 

“Boy’s father?” Aveline asked, and Killeen shrugged. “I see. I’ll have the guards look out for them.”

 

“I’ll need …” Killeen swallowed sour saliva, breathed deep against the nausea. “To check the mortuary.”

 

Aveline nodded, reaching for a piece of parchment. “This should get you co-operation,” she said, writing. “If it doesn’t, let me know.” 

Killeen took the paper. “Thanks. And I could use … a little official authority.”

 

Aveline gave her a level look. “I thought you didn’t want your job back.”

 

“I don’t. But what sort of answers do you think I’ll get in Lowtown — or Darktown — without a rank in front of my name?”

 

“Will you take orders and walk patrol?”

 

Regretfully, Killeen shook her head. “I have to find them, Captain. I can’t promise not to drop everything if I get word.”

 

“I can’t give you the Guard’s authority if you won’t take on a Guard’s duty,” Aveline said.

 

“That’s fair,” Killeen had to admit. She stood up. “Thank you. I’m at the Hanged Man, if you hear anything.”

 

“I’ll send word.” Aveline turned back to her roster, then tossed over her shoulder as Killeen turned to leave, “And Killeen?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Stay out of Darktown. Since the Champion left, it’s worse than ever — and that fancy armour of yours will draw thieves like a magnet.”

 

“I can take care of myself,” Killeen assured her.

 

“So can I,” Aveline said, “and _I_ don’t go there without a full squad. I don’t want to be called out to identify your body when it’s found floating by the docks. Leave Darktown to us.”

 


	20. On The Wing - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen plays chess

_19th August - 21st August_

* * *

 

 

Having been up late with Lady Trevelyan and Leliana in the War Room, trying to plot the route a small child on the run might take from Redcliffe to Skyhold and determine which of their scouts and other forces could be moved to intercept her without endangering other lives, Cullen still found himself awake before the sun, the faint uneasiness of a half-forgotten nightmare raising gooseflesh on his skin.

 

 _Or perhaps it’s the cold_ , he thought, rising to dress. _Kill really is right about the roof._

 

Still, he would miss the play of moonlight through the leaves. It had been a strange comfort during the worst nights of the past year, to wake from the demon’s grip and see that always-changing pattern across the wall and floor, and now — now it was a joy to lie awake and watch that same shifting light dance over Kill’s long limbs.

 

 _Cullen, get a damned window_ , Killeen would tell him if he said that.

 

He dressed hastily, checked for any news of Kill and her journey and found a note from Leliana saying simply that she had passed a posted scout when due, safe and well. Thus reassured, he made a slow circuit of the walls — startling several of the posted guards, his habit of pre-dawn inspections having fallen into abeyance in recent months — and then, the hour being decently late, made his way to the guest quarters.

 

Mia opened the door almost immediately to his knock.

 

"What happened?" she asked. "The child ...?" She glanced back into the room, and then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her. "I didn't want to ask questions last night."

 

"We haven't found her," Cullen said, and hastened to add at her look of concern, "Yet. We have people searching."

 

"That boy last night ... brought a message?"

 

"Of a sort," Cullen temporised. "He let us know that she has — it seems — run away from home. She lived here, in Skyhold, for some months, and it seems she has decided to make her way back."

 

"Cullen ..." Mia hesitated. "Is she, this girl, is she ... yours?"

 

"I am not her father," Cullen assured her, and watched Mia’s expression change to something which might have been either relief or regret. _But, yes, she is mine, in a way._ "She's stubborn, and resourceful. I am sure she will be able to keep herself out of trouble until the Inquisition's agents locate her and return her to her parents." He smiled. "And now — would you and Stanton like to join me for breakfast?"

 

It was an unusual experience, eating breakfast in the mess-hall instead of at his desk, across from Killeen. Instead of the peace of one of the rare quiet moments of their day, the easy comfort of her company, the hall was loud with the clatter of armed men and women, called greetings, laughter and banter.

 

Cullen watched Stanton take it all in, eyes wide, as he himself had stared around the dining hall of the Circle Tower on his first evening there as a new recruit. Of course, Cullen had been seated with boys only a few years older than he was, at the lowest table, supervised by a few of the men who would be his new teachers. Today, there were few youngsters in the mess, since most of the families in the Keep resided in the lower courtyard and fetched their breakfasts either directly from the kitchens or from the cook-pots in the yard. Stanton managed not to stare as the Chargers clattered in, the Bull looming among them, but completely lost the struggle when Lady Trevelyan stopped at their table.

 

“Hello,” she said. “You must be Mia — and Stanton, yes? Do you mind if I join you?”

 

“Your Worship!” Mia said with a gasp.

 

“Please,” the Inquisitor said. “Evelyn.” She took a seat opposite Stanton, and said, “Come to join the Inquisition, recruit?”

 

“I wish I could,” Stanton said, his voice cracking on the last word. He blushed crimson and Cullen winced a little in sympathy.

 

“We can’t spare him from home, your Worship,” Mia said, putting an arm possessively around her son’s shoulders.

 

“Well, when and if you can,” Lady Trevelyan said, “we’ve always a use for a strong arm and a sharp mind.”

 

“My goodness gracious me,” Dorian Pavus said, pausing as he passed their table. “My dear Commander, you really are a dark horse, aren’t you?”

 

“My _nephew_ , Dorian,” Cullen said. “Mia, Stanton, allow me to introduce Dorian Pavus —”

 

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” Dorian captured Mia’s hand and bent over it in a courtly bow. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. And what brings you to our delightful ice-locked aerie, Mistress Mia?” He eyed the bowls on the table. “Certainly not the food.”

 

“Until now, I would have said _the company_ ,” Mia said tartly, and Dorian laughed.

 

“You wound me! I assure you, I am quite charming — once the sun has advanced to a reasonable hour. We can’t all be both night owls and larks like the Commander.” He eyed Cullen. “Although you are looking a little worse for wear this morning. Fretting over our lovely lady lieutenant?”

 

There was a note of real inquiry, a touch of genuine concern, to the mockery, and Cullen shook his head. “All reports are that they’re travelling at good speed, in good health.”

 

“Fel’s run away from home, Dorian,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Cole told us — told Cullen — that she was on her way here with someone calling himself Ser Calenhad, but he was off again before letting us know where she is, exactly.”

 

“My sympathies,” Dorian said, and smiled, “to this Ser Calenhad, who-ever he may be. I’d rather face a Pride demon without my staff than spend a _day_ on the road with that child.”

 

In the days that followed, Cullen tried to persuade himself that Dorian was, if not right about Fel, at least correct in his assessment of her ability to take care of herself. However, as no news came from Leliana’s scouts of any sight or trace of Fel, and Cole remained stubbornly absent — _or_ , Cullen thought to himself, _invisible_ — he could not keep from feeling a mounting concern.

 

It nagged at him as he took Stanton riding, Dennet having found a mount for the boy of suitable size and temperament. Stanton had little experience, but he was a brave lad, and learned quickly. He was eager, too, to learn something of the art and craft of fighting. Mia set her lips and folded her arms when Cullen suggested he give the Stanton a few lessons, at least so the boy could defend himself, but she reluctantly agreed — although she took herself off to the garden rather than watch.

 

Cullen found her there later, staring down at the empty chessboard.

 

“Do you still play?” he asked, and she started a little.

 

“Rarely,” she said. “And you?”

 

“Often,” he said, taking the box of pieces from its place beneath the table. “So perhaps I have a chance of beating you.”

 

 _Or perhaps not_ , he thought ruefully an hour later, fighting a futile rearguard action against Mia’s marauding pieces. He looked up, expecting to see Mia’s familiar, triumphant grin.

 

Instead, she was frowning slightly. “You haven’t played that badly since you were seven,” she said. “Either you’re ill — or something’s worrying you. Is there more to Killeen’s absence than you’ve told me?”

 

“No,” he assured her, and then paused. “No, and yes. Her sister has left home. Their mother fears kidnapping — Kill suspects foolishness. Either way, she’s concerned for her welfare, and for that of her sister’s son.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “But I have regular word of Killeen from our scouts. She’s well, and safe.”

 

“And you’d be with her, if not for my visit,” Mia suggested, pinning down his remaining knight with her mage.

 

“I would,” Cullen admitted. “But then, if I were, I wouldn’t have learned that Fel is in danger. And I’m very glad to see you, and to meet Stanton.”

 

“ _Is_?” Mia asked. “ _Is_ in danger? They haven’t found her?”

 

“Not _yet_ ,” Cullen said. He had very few possible moves left, and they would only delay the inevitable. He chose the best of them, took one of Mia’s castles at the sacrifice of a pawn. “I have faith in Leliana’s people. They _will_ find her.”

 

“When Stanton was eight,” Mia said, “he took it into his head to run away and seek his fortune. He left us a note, so we wouldn’t worry, explaining he was on his way to Denerim. Joen and Gareth —” her husband and their elder brother — “went after him, of course. I wanted to go with them, but there were the little ones to look after.”

 

“What happened?” Cullen asked, although Stanton’s presence in Skyhold suggested the story had a happy ending.

 

“They caught up with him less than three miles down the road and brought him home,” Mia said. She took the offered pawn. “But those few hours … I thought I’d go mad with fear for him. And to not be able to be out looking for him, _myself_ , it was unbearable.”

 

“I would prefer to be active,” Cullen admitted. “But this is much of my job, these days, Mia. I order, and others do. I have responsibilities here — as you did, when Stanton ran away.”

 

“Except you have a whole army of people, literally,” Mia said, “to look after those responsibilities. Flames, Cullen, do you think if there’d been anyone, anyone at all, to leave with the babies, I wouldn’t have been off down the road after Stanton as fast as my feet could carry me?”

 

Cullen frowned down at the board, then advanced his remaining pawn, although he could tell already it would end badly. “It’s not so simple,” he said. “And if you are suggesting I’m not concerned for the girl —”

 

“It’s self-evident you’re concerned for her,” Mia said. “Or you would have seen _this_ coming.” She took his pawn. “Check.”

 

Cullen made the last move available to him, trying to menace her queen. “I have —”

 

“It’s time for me to return home,” Mia said, surprising him, given how soon it was after her arrival. “And since there’s no caravan going in that direction, _you_ will have to escort me. And as Redcliffe is on the way there, we’ll no doubt encounter this girl as we travel, and you can return her to her parents.” She grinned triumphantly at him, slid her castle across the board. “And I think you’ll find that’s checkmate.” 


	21. On The Page - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia writes a letter

  
_23th August - 28th August_

* * *

 

The inn's common room was quiet, the only occupants Mia and Cullen, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the scratch of Mia's quill. 

  
 _Dear Killeen,_

_My brother being the worst letter writer in all Thedas, I thought I should take it on myself to let you know he is well, and safe, and missing you —_

Mia paused, pen above the parchment. The first was true, the second certainly true for the moment — the third she guessed to be true, Cullen currently limiting himself to terse remarks about the weather, their route, the progress of their journey.

She sighed, dipped her quill, and continued, becoming even more economical with the truth.

_— although somewhat distracted by some news which came to Skyhold after you left. News arrived that a girl, Felandaris, who I understand you know, had run away from home, most probably to Skyhold to visit Cullen and yourself. The roads being still occasionally dangerous, Cullen thought it best to travel to meet her along the way, which is what we are doing, as it is partly along the same route as my journey home. For safety, we are accompanied by a number of soldiers, you no doubt know them all, they are called The Chargers and commanded by the large Qunari gentleman named Iron Bull. A mage also accompanies us, Ser Dorian Pavus, who I believe you also know, so you can see we are well protected. Lady Leliana has promised that any letter you write will be forwarded to Cullen promptly, and I promise that as soon as we find this girl safe and well I will send you word._

Mia paused again. There was still room at the bottom of the parchment. Normally, she would have filled it with news of the household, but normally, she would have been at home, and writing to her brother. One of the many letters she had sent into what was largely an echoing void, from which occasional scraps of news or hastily penned notes emerged to let her know her brother was, after all, still alive — reassuring, even as the tone of those notes had changed in ways that clutched her heart with fear for him, even if the news was all too often of blood and fire and danger.

But what could she say to this woman, this stranger? What she wanted to write, _Make my brother happy, please, I have been so worried about him, I hope you deserve him, I will scratch your eyes out if you mistreat him_ — none of that could be put down in this letter which was, after all, the first communication between them.

 _I hope you are well,_ she wrote at last, _and that your family errand concluded satisfactorily. I was very sorry not to have the chance to meet you. Cullen writes rarely, and never at sufficient length, but he has told me enough that I know he is happy, and that you are the cause. I will sign as I hope to be, your friend, Mia._

She folded it. “Cullen, may I have your seal?” she asked, and when he didn’t respond but simply kept staring into the flames dancing in the inn’s fireplace. “ _Cullen_.”

He started, and looked up. “Forgive me. I was … miles away.”

“May I have your seal?” she asked again, and he nodded and slipped the ring from his finger. “Would you like to add something, before I close it? There’s room.” She pushed the parchment across the table to him, offered the quill.

“Thank you,” he said, taking both and frowning down at the page.

“Dear Killeen, I am well, I miss you, Cullen,” Mia suggested.

“I see you’ve told her both those things,” Cullen said.

“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to hear them from _you_ ,” Mia said. A noise from outside — the clash of metal, a raised voice — caught her attention, and she half-rose, listening.

“They’re sparring,” Cullen said reassuringly. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Mia sank back slowly. “How can you tell?”

“If you’d heard the Bull fight, you’d not soon mistake the sound for anything else.”

“Perhaps I should fetch Stanton in,” Mia said.

“Leave him be,” Cullen said. He wrote a line beneath her letter, folded the parchment and offered it back. “The Bull won’t let harm come to him, and he might learn something.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Mia resisted the temptation to read what he’d written, dropped wax on the parchment and pressed his seal to it. “He’s just a boy, Cullen.”

“Only a little younger than I was when I left for the Templars,” Cullen pointed out.

Mia snorted. “And look how _that_ turned out.”

He smiled at her. “If I hadn’t joined the Templars, I would never have gone to Kirkwall,” he said. “And if I had never gone to Kirkwall, I would never have met Killeen. So all in all, I think it turned out rather well, in the end.”

“You really do love her, don’t you?” Mia asked softly.

Cullen coloured a little, and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. _Oh_ , Mia thought with a stab of tenderness, _you still do that_. “I do. She — I hope to deserve her.”

“I hope she deserves you,” Mia said.

He smiled slightly. “She deserves far better than me, but fortunately she doesn’t seem to mind.”

The door opened, and the room was suddenly full of the Chargers, any one of whom seemed to take up twice as much room as normal people and their Captain Iron Bull twice as much again. Mia tucked her feet under her chair to keep them out of the way of trampling boots, and gave Stanton a quick look over to make sure he was unharmed.

 _No bruises, no torn clothing_. In fact, he looked very well, eyes bright, face glowing, looked very much as Cullen had used to when …

Her heart sank. _When he’d been spending time with the Templars._

 _Not my son_! she cried out silently. _Andraste, is it not enough that I have spent these long years fearing and fretting for my dear brother? Must I now spend more years knowing my darling boy is in danger?_

She beckoned Stanton over and drew him down to sit beside her on the bench, smoothing his hair. He squirmed a little, blushing — embarrassed by her, when so recently he would have cuddled up to his mother, content in her arms.

Mia forced herself to let him go. “Was it fun?” she asked.

“It’s not fun,” Stanton said. “It’s work.”

The massive shape of the Iron Bull loomed above them, a huge hand enveloping Stanton’s shoulder for a moment. “Boy’s got potential,” the Qunari rumbled. “He’ll make a decent fighter, once he grows into his ears.”

Stanton beamed, and then Mia all but saw him remember he was nearly a man, and should assume a man’s dignity. “Thank you,” he said casually.

Mia took a deep breath. “When —” _when he’s older. Forty sounds a good age._ “When we can spare him from home,” she said instead, “will be time to talk of that.” Stanton’s shoulders slumped a little. “But in the meantime, it’s as well for him to learn what he can, and I thank you for it, Captain Iron Bull.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she blinked hard. “I think I shall retire for the night. Excuse me.”

Stanton and Cullen both rose their feet as she stood, both her beautiful, well-mannered boys.

Mia turned away quickly before the tears could fall and left the room.

Suddenly, the warmth of the inn was oppressive instead of welcome. Instead of going up to her room as she’d planned, she made her way along the corridor to the door that led out into the inn’s kitchen garden. The neat rows of plants, the harvested beds covered ready for the frost, were so familiar and homely that she couldn’t keep from sniffling.

Behind her, the door opened and closed, and Cullen’s voice said, “Mia?”

“I wanted some air,” she said.

Footsteps, and then a cloak settled around her shoulders, warm from his body-heat. “Me too,” he said softly, hands on her shoulders.

 _Don’t take him away from me!_ she wanted to cry. _Don’t steal him into your world of blood and steel and fire! Let him stay with me, safe, and live a life that has kitchen gardens and hay-making and harvest season …_

But Cullen could no more help Stanton being drawn to the excitement and the glamour of his life than the local Knight-Commander had been able to deter Cullen himself.

“Take care of him,” she said instead. “Please, Cullen. Promise me you’ll keep him as safe as you can, when the time comes.”

“Of course,” he said.

She turned. “There’s no _of course_ ,” she said crossly. “When you have children, you’ll understand.”

Cullen winced a little. “I promise,” he said.

“I hope you have sons and they _all_ go away to play at soldiers and then you’ll finally know what you put Mother and Father through,” Mia said. “And _me_. And all of us.”

“None of it was a _game_ , Mia,” Cullen said, a slight edge to his voice.

“Not that I’d _know_ , from what little you wrote,” Mia pointed out, an edge to her own.

He sighed. “I wished to spare you the worst.”

“And now?”

“Now I still wish to spare you,” Cullen said. “Mia. Let’s not argue over the past. Please. There were difficult times, but they are over. I joined the Templars because I could think of nothing finer than to protect the innocent, and I comfort myself with the knowledge that I have done so, that I still do so. If Stanton feels the same, that is to his credit.”

“You joined the Templars to get a shiny sword and nice armour,” Mia sniffed, and Cullen chuckled.

“That too. I _was_ thirteen.” He paused. “Send Stanton to me when it’s time. I promise he will spend so much time cleaning latrines and shovelling out the stables that if glamour and fine equipment is all he wants, he’ll be home with you again in six months.”

“I will hold you to that,” Mia said. “And I’ll expect you to keep him away from bad company. And be a good example to him. And make sure he eats properly, and washes at least once a week, including behind his ears, and —”

“Mia,” Cullen said, laughing. “He’s all but a man _now_.”

“Oh, Cullen.” She slipped his cloak from her shoulders and offered it back. “When you have your own, you’ll understand — no matter how old they get, they’ll always be the baby you held in your arms.” She turned toward the door, paused when he didn’t move. “Are you coming in?”

“In a moment,” Cullen said. “You go on. We have an early start tomorrow.”

She left him there, and went up to her room, listening to hear him following her as she prepared for bed.

Fell asleep without hearing his footfall on the stairs.

 

 

 

 


	22. In The Rose - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen investigates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains reference to death in child-birth — non-significant character.
> 
> PS: Comments make plot bunnies breed!

 

_8th Kingsway_

* * *

 

 

 

 _It could be worse_ , Killeen told herself, taking shallow breaths through her mouth as she followed the mortuary attendant down the rows of shrouded bodies. _It could be high summer._

  
She’d been here in high summer, more than once, when even the insulating earth around the basement rooms and the heavy stone building above failed to keep out the heat, when the last of the previous winter’s ice had melted, when even the constantly burning smudges couldn’t keep away the flies. The dead were buried fast, at that time of year, claimed or not — which meant there were a lot of them, Kirkwall’s criminal element knowing very well that there’d be cursory investigation of any corpse found in summer. _Especially if they managed to leave it somewhere where it would only be detected when it began to smell._

 

“We’ve three here who fit your description,” the attendant said, stopping by one stone table. “This is the first. Ready?”

  
Killeen braced herself. “Yes.”

  
He drew the shroud down. The woman beneath had probably been pretty, Killeen thought distantly, before she’d been strangled to death. Now, her face was livid and swollen, tongue protruding, eyes bulging. Her own mother wouldn’t have recognised her.

  
“Can I see her left arm?” Killeen asked. “My sister has a scar, a childhood accident.”  _Jean’s pretty, pouting face. “You’re not supposed to play with those boys! Mother says they’re dirty! I’ll tell!” Her own hand, grabbing, pushing — Jean going over backward, elbow hitting the cobblestones hard. Both of them shocked into silence for a long moment at the sight of the blood._

  
The strangled woman had no scar, and Killeen shook her head. “Not this one.”

  
At the next possible, the mortuary attendant uncovered the left arm first, sparing Killeen the sight of the face, and again she shook her head.

 

The third had been in the harbour, and neither face nor arm were in good enough condition for Killeen to guess.

 

“Any other identifying marks?” the attendant asked.

 

Killeen shook her head. “Not that I know of. What else do you know about this one?”

 

He closed his eyes, consulted memory. “Found four days ago, floated in on the tide, probably thrown overboard from a departing vessel. Dead before she went into the water — exsanguination. Hardly any blood left in her. Probably not foul play.”

 

“Suicide?”

 

“Natural causes,” the attendant said, opening his eyes. “She was full-term with child. Probably in labour. Examination of the womb showed — hey, are you all right?”

  
Killeen turned away from the table and bent over, hands on her knees. She took a deep breath and then wished she hadn’t as the sickly sweet smell of decaying flesh caught in her throat. “Fine,” she mumbled. “Cover her up. Not my sister.”

 

“Sure?”

 

She nodded, wished she hadn’t as the room spun. “She has a six month old child.”

 

Cloth whispered behind her, mercifully shrouding the dead woman once more. “I’ll let the Captain know if we get any in who fit,” the attendant said. “And I’ll remember the scar. You sure you’re all right? Need a bucket?”

  
“Need to get out of here,” Killeen said, and, stumbling on rubbery legs, fled.

  
Outside, she leaned against the wall and took deep breaths until her head stopped spinning and her stomach settled. She had been close to death, herself, been in pain and frightened, but there had always been someone there to help her — Dorian, Cullen, Lady Vivienne, the Inquisitor. She could not even imagine how terrified that woman on the cold stone table had been, struggling to bring her child into the world, feeling her life ebbing away and with it, the life of her unborn babe —

  
 _And Cullen wants this?_  she thought, half in amazement, half in anger.  _He’d have me patrolling the walls or behind a desk if he could, but thinks nothing of —_

  
Unfair, she knew. Cullen had three siblings, she had one: both their mothers had survived. Fel’s mother lived, Cullen’s sister Mia was in good health after bearing five children.

  
But, oh, Maker, the thought of it, of that poor woman’s fear and grief, brought sweat prickling to her skin and tears to her eyes.

  
“You all right, Loot?” Fraser asked.

  
Killeen pulled herself together. “Yeah,” she said, offered as explanation, “There was a bad one in there. Spent time in the water.”

  
“Not your sister, though?”

 

“No,” Killeen said. “So that’s something.”

 

“Where to now?”

 

Killeen started along the colonnade toward the streets leading back down to Lowtown. “Now we start asking around,” she said.

 

First, without much hope, among the merchants in the streets just the right side of the walls. If the man Jean had left Denerim with had been more than some semi-indigent libertine, there would have been a fair chance he’d have taken rooms in the security of Hightown — and Jean would have been seen on the streets, most likely purchasing food and whatever other provisions they needed. But she hadn’t.

 

 _And therefore likely he wasn’t,_ Killeen thought, with a little drop to her stomach despite how little she’d expected good news.

 

Steeling herself, she led the way to the red lantern district. The suggestive motif of The Blooming Rose was a little faded these days, but the brothel was clearly still doing enough business to pay for not one, but two, heavy-set men with ingrained scowls flanking the door. They looked Killeen over as she approached, and for a moment she thought that without the Guards’ authority she’d have to bribe her way in, but her fine-wrought mail seemed give sufficient impression of wealth, and they passed her through, Fraser following. Spotting Madam Lusine’s distinctive white hair by the bar, Killeen strode toward her.

 

The brothel keeper raised her eyebrows as Killeen approached, looking less than welcoming. “Sergeant Killeen,” she said. “I hope there’s no problem?”

 

“It’s Lieutenant Killeen now,” Killeen told her. “And no, no problem. This isn’t official.”

 

Lusine’s expression changed, and she eyed Killeen’s gear assessingly. “I see you’ve come up in the world,” she said, raising a hand and beckoning to someone behind Killeen. “How can we entertain you today?”

 

“I’m just here to talk,” Killeen said. She sensed movement behind her and shifted her weight, glanced over her shoulder to see Serendipity and Adriano.

 

“I’m very skilled at conversation,” Serendipity cooed, running her fingers up and then down Killeen’s arm. “Along with … other things that take lips and teeth and tongue.”

 

Over Serendipity’s shoulder, Fraser’s eyes were wide, and Killeen tried to remember if he was one of their city or country recruits. _Country, by the look on his face._ She captured the elf’s hand and lowered it gently. “I’m sure you are. But I’m actually trying to find a woman called Jean Hanmount.”

 

“You know better, Lieutenant,” Lusine said, “than to expect anything less than discretion _here_.”

 

“I don’t expect she was a client,” Killeen said. “Have you hired any new girls in the past few weeks?”

 

The madam pretended to consult memory. “No,” she said at last.

 

Killeen tucked her thumbs in her sword-belt, squared her shoulders. “Look,” she said. “She’s my sister. She’s of age. I don’t care about your business, your clientele, or your staff — I just want to know where she is.”

 

Lusine toyed with a strand of her silvery hair. “There was one girl who came in looking for work,” she said. “A week ago, a little more, maybe. Not _Jean_ , though. She was calling herself _Amaryllis_.” All three of them — Lusine, Serendipity and Adriano — laughed.

 

Killeen didn’t. “Dark hair, grey eyes, pretty?”

 

“Not pretty enough,” Adriano said.

 

“And no references,” Serendipity added.

 

“Do you know where she was staying?” Killeen asked.

 

Madam Lusine shook her head. “Smelt of Lowtown,” she said. “I did tell her she might have more luck with some of the establishments down there. Less choosy — and some of them cater to a clientele who’d pay extra for a nursing mother.”

 

That clinched it: Killeen herself hadn’t mentioned that Jean might still be nursing her son. “ _Which_ establishments?” she asked, knew her voice was too sharp, didn’t care.

 

Lusine hesitated, and then with a glance at the hand Killeen had rested on her sword-hilt, named several — none of them names familiar to Killeen from previous years, but then, turnover of both owners and workers in the low town brothels was a lot higher than at the _Rose_.

 

She thanked Lusine politely, refused another offer of hospitality and entertainment from Serendipity, and bought both her and Adriano one of the Rose’s over-priced, watered drinks in lieu of directly paying Lusine for the information — which, she supposed, she could have done, no longer being a city guard, but still, it went against the grain.

 

Once they were outside again, she led the way back toward low-town. Fraser trailed a little behind, seeming distracted.

 

“That place, Loot,” he said after a moment. “It was, right — I mean, they’re whores, aren’t they?”

 

“They are,” Killeen said.

 

“I thought they’d be … I dunno. Poorer.”

 

“They make good money there.” Killeen eyed Fraser. “Look, the _Rose_ is clean,” she said. “Pricey, but clean. Which couldn’t be said for some of the other knocking-shops in Kirkwall.”

 

“That Serendipity… “Fraser said. “She has fantastic … ahem, eyes.”

 

“And a huge cock,” Killeen said. Fraser’s eyed widened. “Which might be your thing, of course, but just so you know.”

 

“You mean she’s a … he’s a …”

 

 _Definitely a country boy,_ Killeen thought to herself. “Serendipity is Serendipity,” she said. “Expensive, and worth it, from what I’ve heard. And she prefers she.”

 

“Are you sure?” Fraser asked.

 

“Fraser, I’ve _seen_ it,” Killeen said.

 

“You’ve _been_ with him? Her?” he asked, shocked.

 

“No,” Killeen said. “Got called out to a disturbance there, more than the bouncers could handle — bunch of drunk sailors off a very profitable run, one of them turned out to be an apostate mage. Serendipity and her client of the night had both bolted out of their room in the altogether when the fire started.”

 

“Maker’s balls!” Fraser said. “What happened?”

 

“Well, we called the Templars in to deal with the mage,” Killeen said.

 

_Her hand aches. The knuckle of the third finger is broken, she is sure, and not just a little. The swelling is one clue, the nauseating feeling of ends of bone grinding against each other is another. Her eyes and throat still burn from the smoke, although the fire is all but out now._

 

_She coughs, raises her voice. “Look, let’s talk about this. You can stay in there all night but sooner or later you’re going to want to get back to your ship, right?”_

 

_An Antivan accent instructs her to — Killeen isn’t all that good on Antivan vocabulary but she can recognise the words fuck and mother and possible goat in the spate of words._

 

_“If you’d seen my mother, you’d know a goat would need a blindfold,” she calls back, and wins a chuckle from at least some of the sailors holed up inside the Blooming Rose._

 

_“Do you think you can get them to come out?”_

 

 _She knows the voice, light and even, has spent more time remembering the few sentences she’d heard of it than she’d like to admit, even to herself. To Benon, in the sweltering heat of Stock Street,_ I swear to you on my honour as a Templar, and on my honour as a man. _To herself, in the marginally cooler air inside Benon’s house —_ That was well done.

 

 _In the alley behind_ The Green Hound, _cold autumn rain sheeting down on both of them, his hand warm on her forehead as she retches, his face changing as he takes in what she’s telling him, until he looks almost as horrified as if he’d seen the contents of that house. Not trying to tell her that she did her best, that it was unavoidable._

 

 _Hand under her elbow because she’s still too drunk to stand quite straight._ I’ll walk you back to your barracks.

 

_And now, here, outside a slightly singed brothel, the third time they’ve met._

 

_“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” she says, and the corner of his perfect mouth twitches up slightly. “And no. The mage in there is terrified of being dragged off to the Gallows.”_

 

_“He **is** an apostate,” Cullen says._

 

_“He’ll be out of the city on the next tide and someone else’s problem,” Killeen says, and Cullen’s mouth thins._

 

_“He’s our problem right now, and we can deal with him.”_

 

_He turns, beckons his men forward._

 

_ Killeen has never seen Templars use their abilities before. It’s fast and ugly, waves of something — anti-magic, she supposes — sweeping through the  _ Rose _. She’s n o mage, but even so, there’s a teeth-aching aftertaste to it, a sense of something  _ missing _. _

 

_The mage goes down, is dragged away, and the rest of the crew give up the fight. Guards drag them away to custody. The onlookers disperse, and Madam Lusine and her staff pick their way through the wreckage of their workplace._

 

Well, it’s over, _Killeen thinks_ , and that was the objective, after all. _Still, she can’t help remembering the abject fear on the face of the apostate mage as he was dragged away. Mages need to be contained, she knows, can be a lethal danger to the unprotected even if they don’t fall to the ever-present danger of possession. She herself has a badly broken finger from the apostate’s fireball tearing her shield from her grip._

 

_The rumours from the gallows are just that — rumours._

 

_It is the way it works, the way it has always worked, the Circles, the Templars —_

 

 _“I said_ no _.”_

 

_It’s Cullen’s voice, but that’s not what catches Killeen’s attention and has her moving toward it before she’s even started to understand what he’s saying._

 

_Utter, raw, unmediated panic._

 

 _Cullen’s inside the_ Rose _, and he has Katriela by the throat._

 

_Killeen doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate, strides across the wrecked front room of the brothel and puts her hand on his arm. “Let her go, now,” she says, gentle and easy. “Cullen, listen to me. Let her go now.”_

 

_He does, jerks away from her, strides out._

 

_There’s not much smoothing over for Killeen to do, Cullen being a Templar and this being Kirkwall, but she does what needs to be done, reminds Madam Lusine that it’s down to Cullen her establishment isn’t still occupied by drunken and out of control sailors, assures Katriela that she understands the woman was only trying to show a little appreciation —_

 

_Heads outside to find him braced against the wall, face blanched even in the torchlight._

 

_“Are you —?”_

 

_His voice is clipped, terse. “Be about your duties, Guard.”_

  
  


She hadn’t understood, then.

 

_I said **no**._

 

She does, now. 


	23. On The Road - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen meets Ser Calenhad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve changed the tags to include “addiction” because flashbacks to Kirkwall will inevitably cover the period Cullen was taking lyrium.

  
_29 August_

* * *

 

 

 

Their little company — Cullen, Mia and Stanton, the Chargers, and Dorian -- were little more than a day's ride from Redcliffe without finding any trace of Fel. 

  
_Only to be expected_ , Cullen told himself.  _Afoot, limited to a child's pace — she and this Ser Calenhad could hardly travel fast or far._  And Cole's cryptic words had indicated — as much as they'd indicated anything —  they were travelling covertly, probably by night, which would slow them further.

 

_Or they did not come in this direction at all_. Whatever the scoundrel who had lured Fel from home had  _told_ her, he could well have struck off in any direction. 

 

The man was obviously a fugitive, and running from punishment for some serious crime, one punishable by death. Cullen hoped, but did not believe, he had been falsely accused: that he was somehow an honest, even honourable man, driven in desperation to seeking help from a naive child. 

  
That seeming unlikely, his next hope was that the man's crime was murder, perhaps for hire — that he be, if ruthless enough to be a sell-sword, at least motivated by no murderous urges of his own.

  
There were other crimes that would see a man dance at the end of a rope, if caught. Cullen refused to entertain thoughts of them.

 

Knew, cold and clear as lyrium, that he'd kill the man if Fel had come to harm. 

 

He glanced back at Mia, riding a little way behind. No, he would not kill a man, in cold blood or hot, in front of his sister. He would take him into custody, transport him for trial — to Skyhold ideally, if the Inquisition could claim jurisdiction —

 

And if Lady Trevelyan allowed it, wield the headsman's sword himself. 

  
_As well Kill **isn't** here,_ he thought, as much as her absence was a constant, nagging ache. 

  
_She'd cut this Ser Calenhad's throat without blinking should she think she has cause._  

  
He can even see the expression that would be on her face as she did it, cool and clear and calm as one of the hidden lakes high up in the Frostback Mountains, fed by snow-melt rather than rain — then realises that he has seen it, in the dusty heat of a Kirkwall alley —

 

_Cullen’s back aches as if he’s been beaten by several Qunari wielding polearms, but he’s alive, thanks to Templar training and lyrium-enhanced Templar abilities. The lightning bolts the apostate had flung at him had knocked him senseless but would have killed someone without such protection, without magic resistant armour — would have killed Killeen Hanmount if he hadn’t reached her in time, borne her to the ground with his body between her and the mage._

And she must have known it, too, _he thinks, getting stiffly to his feet, must have realised that playing diversion for the rest of her squad was not survivable._

_It had taken him too damnably long to get his men together to respond to the news of yet another nest of maleficarum uncovered in the city. There is nowhere for him to place the blame for that but squarely on himself — he had delayed taking his lyrium yesterday, even the reduced dosage he had been trying to become accustomed to, had been slow to react to the alarm. Killeen had decided there was no more time to lose only a moment before the Templars had arrived, had already been pelting at full speed down the street …_

_If he had decided to approach the incident from Moon Street instead of Dyer’s Lane, he would have had no hope of intercepting her._

_He can see that his men have dealt effectively with the apostates. The air tingles with the aftertaste of Silence and Cleanse, and there are robed bodies sprawled in the street. One last mage is desperately parrying blows with her now-useless staff — the Templars are taking it in turns to attack her, drawing the end of the fight out. Cullen hears one of them laugh, and strides forward, mouth open to call a command — whether to_ Finish it _or to_ Arrest her _he himself is not quite sure —_

_And Killeen Hanmount steps up behind the mage and as calmly as if she’s slicing a melon, yanks the apostate’s head back by the hair and cuts her throat from ear to ear._

_Her face doesn’t change in the slightest as she does it, as the blood fountains out with the last faltering beats of the mage’s heart, as she lets go of the body and it falls in a huddle of black fabric at her feet like so much discarded garbage._

_Her face doesn’t change until she wipes her sword on her sleeve and looks up to see him standing walking towards her._

_Then the colour drains from her cheeks until the dark honey of her skin is dirty tan. Cullen is close enough to her now to be able to see her gaze drift out of focus, the muscles of her face slackening — hurries the last few steps and catches her around the waist before her knees give. He thinks that she’s wounded, furious at her for being in the thick of a fight against mages, a place no non-Templar has any sane reason to be — then realises there’s no blood, no scorch or sear on her armour._

_Her head droops against his shoulder and he holds her up, because her squad are there and he understands the need to maintain dignity in front of those one commands, half carries her to the entrance of Dyer’s Lane where they’re out of sight. He’d lower her to the ground but her hands are clenched in the fur of his collar._

_“You’re not dead,” she says dazedly. “You’re not dead.”_

_“Are you hurt?” he asks her, and her expression sharpens with inexplicable anger._

_“Am **I** hurt?” she snaps. “Am **I** hurt? What by the Maker’s balls did you think you were **doing**?”_

 

_“Saving your life,” Cullen says without thinking about it, absolute honesty, and then, as her eyes blaze and the colour mounts in her cheeks enough to make the long scars of the abomination’s claws stand out clearly, “I owed you one, after all.”_

_“Pay the debt by staying **alive** ,” she snarls at him, pulls away from him and stalks off, unsteady but upright._

_But he **is** alive, and he can’t understand why she’s so angry with him, unless it’s because his own tardiness was the cause of her close call in the first place._

 

Hadn’t understood it then, or for years afterwards, but he could see the shock on her face, her fury, in a new light, now. In the aftermath of Adamant, he had wanted in almost equal parts to wrap her in his arms and to shake her until her teeth rattled for putting herself in such terrible, unbearable danger.

  
_I love you, Cullen, I love you, I always have_ , she’d sobbed, hands pressed over her mouth as if to catch the words before they could escape, and he realised now that _always_ stretched back at least as far as that moment in Dyer’s Lane when she’d been so utterly, inexplicably furious at him for saving her life at some small risk to his own.

 

And if that were true, then later, when she’d —

 

Steelheart was too well bred to shy when Cole turned up in his path, but the stallion’s sudden stop threw Cullen up his mount’s neck.

 

“ _Cole_ ,” he started, “will you _learn_ —”

 

“In there,” the spirit boy said, one arm outflung, finger pointing into the undergrowth lining the road. “She’s there.”

 

Cullen dismounted from Steelheart and flung the reins to Krem’s waiting hand. “Bull, stay with Mia and Stanton,” he ordered. “Dorian —”

 

“There’s wading through damp underbrush to be done,” the mage said, swinging down from his own horse. “So of course, it’s _my_ job.” He eyed the forest and gave a theatrical shudder.

 

“Grim, Rocky, with the Commander,” the Bull said. “The rest of you, eyes open.”

 

Cullen started into the undergrowth in the direction Cole had indicated. He could hear the others following, could sense Cole ghosting along beside. “Fel?” he called. “Fel, are you there?”

  
Bushes rustled, and he saw a familiar, dirty face peeping through the leaves, let out a long breath of relief. “Ser Bear?”

 

“It’s me, Fel,” he reassured her.

 

She took a step out of her cover toward him, took another, then ran to him. Cullen dropped to his knees and opened his arms as she reached him and she flung herself against him, arms winding around his neck. He gathered her to him, her bird-like shoulder-bones fragile beneath his hand. _Safe. Safe._

 

“Are you all right, Fel?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” she said, and he felt something in his chest ease at the patent honesty in her voice. “I’m sorry we took so long. Cole helped, but Ser Calenhad is too sick for us to travel fast.”

 

Anger kindled in his gut again at the assumed name. “Where is he?”

 

Fel let go of him, took a step away and seized his hand. “This way. Not far.”

 

Cullen glanced back at Dorian, Grim and Rocky, saw them spreading out into a diamond formation without fuss. He let Fel tow him further into the undergrowth, hand on his sword-hilt. _What man, however desperate, however ill or injured, would put a child to such risk?_

 

Fel eeled her way easily through the dense bushes, Cullen forcing his way behind her, until they reached a low hollow. He noted automatically that it was sufficiently far enough from the road, and screened enough, to make a fire safe, and that the tightly woven brush provided some shelter from wind and rain. It was as good a camp-site as he himself could have found, and that made him all the more curious about — and wary of — the brigand calling himself Ser Calenhad.

 

The campsite, however, was empty. “Where is he?” Cullen asked Fel.

 

“Here,” she said, crossing to the pack propped against a tree.

 

Cullen looked around. “Where?”

 

“ _Here_ ,” Fel said impatiently. She opened the flap of the pack and carefully reached inside, lifting out …

 

A tiny, limp, and from the looks of it three-quarters dead, white kitten. 


	24. In Lowtown - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen has trouble sleeping

_9th Kingsway_

* * *

 

 

By the time Killeen and Fraser had finished making the rounds of the Lowtown brothels, night had fallen. The streets were beginning to take on the uneasy, edgy feeling that Killeen remembered so well from her years with the Guard — the feeling that anything could happen, and probably would, if you looked away from the dark corners for more than a moment.

 

She’d found two more likely sightings of Jean, and wanted to keep looking, but it was time to be indoors, and so she led the way back to the _Hanged Man_. Thank the Maker, one of the other guests had left that day, and thanks to Cullen’s insistence she draw more funds than she herself would have estimated needing, Killeen could easily afford to rent it.

 

Years of barracks living had inured her to room-mates, but Fraser had a particularly penetrating snore.

 

In fact, she could hear it through the wall as she lay sleepless in her own bed.

 

 _If Cullen snored like that, I might have to reconsider this whole thing_ , she thought, and then smiled in the dark. _As if there’s anything that could make me reluctant to share his bed._

 

_Maker’s balls, I wish he was here._

 

Wished for the constant comfort of his company, the confident assumption that he’d be watching the left side of the street as she watched the right, the utter certainty that he would not overlook a potential threat and that he would guard her back and her blind-spots as surely as she would guard his.

 

Wished, too, to hear him earnestly murdering one more joke, to see him rub the back of his neck in embarrassment or thought, to watch the way his eyes changed from amber to peat depending on the light …

 

And most particularly, right at that moment, wished to feel his body strong and hard against her own, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her skin, his lips trailing kisses down her neck to her collarbone, her breasts, tongue teasing her nipples as he —

 

Killeen thumped the pillow and rolled over. _**Not** helping._

 

Jean and Thomas were out there somewhere, and not in safety if Jean was trying — and failing — to get work in the kinds of knocking shops that one found in Lowtown, and here _Killeen_ was, safe and fed and warm and preoccupied with thoughts of Cullen’s eyes, his hands, his tongue … the way he breathed _Oh, **yes** , Kill_ against her neck as he entered her, as if each time were a new and delightful revelation, the weight of his body on hers, the feel of him moving in her, the delicious friction, faster and faster and …

 

She gave in, slipped her hand between her legs, closed her eyes and remembered his face as he’d watched her do exactly this on the desk in his office —

 

Her climax came quickly, not particularly satisfying but at least relief from the aching tension in her belly.

 

 _Now go to sleep, Kill,_ she told herself firmly.

 

She managed a few hours of uneasy dozing, then found herself wide awake again, and resignedly rose and armed. A look through the shutters showed the night still dark, dawn hours away.

 

This had been her shift, for a while, and perhaps that was why now, back in Kirkwall, she found herself alert when sensible people were asleep. She had patrolled those darkened streets, following her sergeant, the nights silent except for their footsteps, the clink and jingle of their armour, the occasional scurry of a rat — some animal, some human.

 

But those were not the memories that came back to her as she leaned against the window sill and waited for the dawn — not those early years when she’d scarcely seen the sun.

 

No, it was sunlight she remembered, blazing hot in summer, thin and weak in winter, obscured by cloud during the long rainy months of autumn. Sunlight, and her own squad after that business with Benon had convinced Captain Aveline to promote her —

 

And Cullen, sometimes seen at a distance, a glint of golden hair at the end of a street, sometimes by her side when the threat of hostile magic, apostate mages, meant the Guard needed Templar help.

 

_Always so serious, grim even, although Killeen finds she can win a twitch of a smile from him with the right wry joke at the right moment — finds she thinks entirely too much about exactly what she might say to see that slight lift at the corner of his beautiful mouth._

 

_He doesn’t smile for anyone else, that she can see, and that makes her wonder a little if he looks forward to seeing her as she does to seeing him. If, perhaps …_

 

_Then that one terrible night when Abominations stalk the streets, when she is — the last time ever in her life — out of armour because she is off-duty. Cautiously trying to make her way back to the Keep, sword plundered from a corpse in her hand, and Cullen, pressed hard, fighting for his life —_

 

_She would have done her best to aid him whoever he’d been, but certainly, the fact that he is impossibly beautiful and that she can make him, sometimes, almost, smile lends wings to her feet and strength to her arm._

 

_As hideous as her injuries are, she is not, as she first feared, blinded, and when Cullen comes to see how she is doing, the first time he has ever sought out her company, she finds she can still win that tiny, almost smile._

 

_Her face for his life — it’s not a trade she regrets for an instant._

 

 _Months later, steeling herself to charge headlong into the little knot of apostate mages at the end of the street, it’s that upward twitch of those beautiful lips Killeen thinks of, it’s every moment she almost said_ Cullen, let’s get a drink later _and thought better of it that she regrets._

 

_It’s those brown eyes with the shadows of sleeplessness beneath them that she has most difficulty dismissing from her mind, is the last thought she pushes down into the box she keeps in her mind for just such moments as these, when any distraction will be deadly._

 

_One glance over her shoulder to make sure her squad are ready to take advantage of the distraction she’ll provide, the weakening of the mage’s powers that will follow the barrage they will surely unleash on her, and she launches herself forward, full pelt towards those black robes, although it’s impossible she can close the distance before they —_

 

_The impact knocks the breath and sense from her and it takes a second for her to realise she is not, in fact, dead, that she has not been hit by a bolt of lighting or ice but by a large armoured body — a body which is now lying on top of her, pinning her down. She squirms to free herself and hands tighten on her arm._

 

 _“Stay down,” Cullen says in her ear, and then she hears the sizzle of lightning, feels his body jerk with the impact, hears his grunt of pain._ No _, she thinks,_ no, no, no _— another bolt hits him and he gasps, then a third —_

 

_And he makes no sound at all, going to a dead weight on top of her, gauntleted hand falling limp and open from her arm._

 

_Running footsteps — hands seize him, seize her, other Templars — Killeen gets her feet under her and runs with them to the shelter of the alley, but Cullen’s feet drag over the cobbles, his head lolling. When they set him down, he looks like he could almost be asleep._

 

_Except for the trickle of blood at the corner of his beautiful mouth._

 

_She charges with the Templars, trusting they will suppress the mages’ magic, not much caring if they can’t. One robed figure falls, another — Killeen runs a third through without hesitating, turns to see the last apostate parrying the Templars’ blows._

 

_They have murdered Cullen Rutherford and she will kill every last mage in Kirkwall for it before she’s done._

 

_Killeen cuts the woman’s throat and looks up to see —_

 

_Cullen, alive._

 

_The box in her mind flies open and the cool detachment of combat shreds away. He’s not dead. He’s not dead._

 

_The street dims and sways around her, Cullen’s face the only clear, steady point, and then his arms are around her, strong and real and alive, holding her up — then just holding her, in the shadow of a doorway in Dyer’s Lane, as she spins between the grief she had not allowed herself to feel and the relief that there was no reason for it. She thinks she might be going to burst into tears, thinks she might break his nose for letting himself be hurt, thinks she might kiss him and taste the warm, living breath that brushes her cheek as she leans against him._

 

_Almost does, catches herself in time, but the tumult of emotions inside her demands some outlet. Anger is allowed, between them, but tears and kisses … may be, may not be, and this is not the moment to find out._

 

_Rather than take the risk, she yells at him, pulls away._

 

_Stalks off to get safely, numbingly drunk._

 

With what she knew now, Killeen thought that perhaps that had been the wisest option, after all. She’d had little understanding of lyrium, in those days, of its effects on the Templars who took it — she’d had no understanding at all of Cullen’s past.

 

If she’d touched him, then, if she’d pressed her lips to his as she’d longed to, would he have welcomed it, or would he have flinched from her? _Probably the latter_ , Killeen thought, remembering —

 

A rap on her door startled her from her thoughts. “Hey, Loot,” Fraser said. “You up?”

 

“Just coming,” Killeen said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, authors are fueled by caffeine and feedback!


	25. In The Woods - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen tries to deal with complications

_29 August_

* * *

 

 

 

 

“ _That’s_ Ser Calenhad?” Dorian asked, and began to laugh. “So much for the dangerous ruffian, Commander!”

 

Fel cradled the tiny kitten to her chest. “Hudson’s dog got him. I made him let go but Ser Calenhad got hurt bad. Mama was going to kill him!”

 

“May I see?” Cullen asked. Fel nodded, and held the kitten out to him.

 

Cullen took the panting, shivering animal carefully. It _had_ been badly injured, one ear in shreds and one eye gone, skin torn by the hound’s teeth. More, it was clearly too small to survive without its mother. _Amazing it’s lasted this long._ “Cubling …” he started gently.

 

“You have healing potions, don’t you?” she asked eagerly.

 

“I’m not sure they work on cats,” Cullen said.

 

“But Ser Dorian can fix him! He fixed Firefly!”

 

Cullen turned to the mage. “Dorian … ?”

 

The mage bent his head over the tiny form. “I don’t know …” he said. “It’s hardly my speciality. It was Dennet who knew what needed to be done for the horse.”

 

“Please!” Fel said desperately. “Please try!”

 

“I might as easily kill him outright, child,” Dorian said. “He’s very weak, and healing magic puts stress on a body.”

 

“If I make him stronger first?” Fel asked. “I know all the healing herbs. I’ve been poulticing his wounds and they hardly smell at all now. And Cole got milk for him, and he can lick it from my fingers.”

 

“Cole _stole_ milk, you mean,” Cullen said.

 

Fel folded her arms. “He said the cows had plenty.”

 

“The cows, and the milk, belong to someone, to a farmer.” Cullen said. “Taking the milk is theft.”

 

“Cole says the cows think the farmer belongs to _them_ ,” Fel said stubbornly. “And that they were happy to help Ser Calenhad.”

 

Cullen gave that line of argument up as pointless. “If he’d been caught, he’d have been jailed.” _I really should have paid more attention to her religious education myself._

 

“If he hadn’t tried, Ser Calenhad would have _died_ ,” Fel said. “Wouldn’t you risk going to jail to save someone’s life?”

 

_It’s a **kitten** , not a person_, Cullen wanted to say, but bit the words back. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

 

“After we fix Ser Calenhad,” Fel said.

 

Cullen looked up and met Dorian’s gaze, the mage serious for once. Dorian shook his head slightly, and Cullen nodded acknowledgement. The kitten, both men knew, was beyond saving.

 

“Let’s make camp,” Cullen temporised. “And we can talk about it later.”

 

Grim carrying Fel’s belongings, and Cullen carrying the kitten, they made their way back to the road and the rest of their company.

 

Fel stopped stock still as she saw Stanton. “Who is _that_?” she asked suspiciously.

 

“My sister’s son, Stanton” Cullen told her. “That’s my sister, next to him. Mia. Come and say hello.”

 

Fel didn’t move. “Where’s Kill?”

 

“She, uh. Visiting her family,” Cullen said.

 

The massive form of the Iron Bull loomed over his shoulder. “Rocky tells me you found Ser Calenhad,” the Qunari rumbled, peering down at the kitten.  “Name’s longer than he is.”

 

“We won’t travel further today,” Cullen said, and the Bull nodded, turned and began bellowing orders to make camp.

 

Stanton took the cue to dismount. Cullen noted with approval that he remembered to keep hold of the reins, and held out his other hand to help his mother down.

 

Mia gathered her skirts clear of the mud and approached Cullen and Fel. “Everything’s all right?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “This is Felandaris. Fel, my sister, Mia.”

 

Fel glared. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Looking for you,” Mia said.

 

“Why?” Fel asked suspiciously.

 

“Fel …” Cullen said, casting an apologetic glance at Mia.

 

“Because no-one knew where you were,” Mia said calmly, as if Fel’s tone had been polite and her question reasonable. “And when people are lost, it’s good to look for them, don’t you think?”

 

“I suppose,” Fel conceded. “But I _wasn’t_ lost. _I_ knew where I was.”

 

“Are you hungry?” Mia asked, and when Fel nodded, held out her hand. “Come with me, then, and let’s find some food.”

 

Fel hung back a second, eyes on Ser Calenhad.

 

“I’ll take care of him,” Cullen assured her, and Fel allowed herself to be led away.

 

“He’s _my_ Ser Bear,” Cole said at Cullen’s elbow. “Not some stupid _boy’s_.”

 

_Wonderful_ , Cullen thought, and sighed. “Thank you for keeping Fel safe, Cole,” he said. “But you should have taken her home, to her parents.”

 

“But she didn’t want to go,” Cole said. 

 

“She’s a child,” Cullen said. “What she wants isn’t relevant.”

 

“She’s older than me,” Cole pointed out, and then, “Different how?”

 

“You are … special,” Cullen said. “Fel is a normal human child. She’s not old enough to make decisions like this, on her own.”

 

“She wasn’t on her own,” Cole said. “She had me. And Ser Calenhad.”

 

“I’m glad she had you, but I’m not sure a dying kitten adds much to the party.” 

 

“He doesn’t think he’s dying,” Cole observed, studying the kitten. “He thinks he’s living.”

 

“It’s dying,” Cullen said.

 

“You can’t know that for certain,” Cole said. “He could recover. I don’t know, and neither do you. That’s part of life. Doesn’t he deserve a chance?”

 

“It doesn’t have a chance,” Cullen said. “And it’s suffering, Cole.” He should, he knew, pinch out the tiny spark of life flickering so feebly, and simply tell Fel the kitten had succumbed to its injuries — but not with the probability that Cole would blurt out what he’d done at the least opportune moment.

 

“Also you shouldn’t lie,” Cole said gravely.

 

“Sometimes a lie is kinder,” Cullen said, and Cole shook his head.

 

“I know that. Varric explained. I meant, _you_ shouldn’t lie. You’re not very good at it.” Cole paused. “Fel really wants you to save Ser Calenhad.”

 

“I wish I could,” Cullen said honestly. “Cole, is Killeen all right? Do you know?”

 

Cole looked off into the distance a moment. “She said it hurts when I tell about her. But I don’t think she’d mind you knowing — riding, miles and miles to go, this saddle will be part of my arse before we reach Denerim and I’ll shake some sense into Jean like mother should have done years ago.”

 

“Thank you,” Cullen said, reassured by the entirely normal sound of Killeen’s complaints.

 

The Chargers had efficiently set up camp a short distance away from the road, and Cullen found Fel, stuffing the last of a roll into her mouth as Mia tried to comb the tangles and brambles from her hair. One glance at Fel’s face and Cullen didn’t need Cole to tell him the girl was barely tolerating the exercise. Hastily, he distracted her from what seemed to be an imminent explosion by returning the kitten to her care.

 

Mia abandoned her efforts with the comb and rose to her feet. “A word?” she asked, and Cullen nodded and followed her a little way aside. “Cullen,” she said nervously, “what if that kitten is Blighted?”

 

“It isn’t,” Cullen reassured her. “The wounds are infected, but it’s not Blight. I’d recognise it.” He sighed. “Still, the poor thing should be put out of its misery. Fel will be heartbroken.”

 

“She’ll get over it,” Mia said pragmatically. “Children do. She’ll cry and say she hates you for about a week and then it’ll be as if it never happened.”  

 

Cullen hoped she was right. After all, she had far more experience with children than he did.

 

_But then, I have more experience with Fel … and I suspect she’s quite good at bearing a grudge._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There must be injuries that healing potions and mages can’t heal, or all those soldiers in Skyhold’s courtyard wouldn’t have been dying.


	26. By The Campfire - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen has trouble sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-specific reference to dub-con.

_29 August_

* * *

 

 

Cullen stared into the campfire without seeing the flames.

 

Fel, fed and at least partially tidied, had fallen asleep curled around her kitten. Stanton had stayed awake a little longer, struggling to keep his eyes open and take part in the quiet conversation between the Chargers. Dalish was on watch, to be relieved later by Krem, and Cullen himself could rest a little knowing their safety was seen to by experienced, competent hands.

 

Still, he was reluctant to lie down. The dreams rarely bothered him these days, but it had been a long time since he had been used to falling asleep without hearing Killeen’s breath a soft whisper in the dark: first from the other side of the tent, or the room, and recently and wonderfully, from just beside him as she lay against his shoulder.

 

It seemed impossible that it had only been since Haven that she had been by his side through the long nights — that they had known each other for years, had been friends, comrades-in-arms of a sort, that she had been in love with him for so long and yet they had never, even for a moment, crossed the line into the tender intimacy they now shared.

 

Not even come close … except, perhaps, once —

 

_He’s looking for Killeen._

 

_He’s looking for her to apologise, although he’s sure he’s not sorry to have saved her life — but she’s angry with him, utterly furious, and he finds he can’t contemplate the night of dreams ahead of him knowing that._

 

_She had nearly died. She could die, on any given day — or he could._

 

_He doesn’t want that to happen while she’s angry with him._

 

_She’s not at the Keep. One of the Guard tells him she’s gone out for a drink, names a tavern in Lowtown, and Cullen heads in that direction. The hour has grown late, and he watches the shadows in the alleys he passes, hopes Killeen is not drinking alone and that at least one of her companions has the sense to remain sober._

  
  


_It’s because he’s watching those shadows that he sees her, sitting propped against the wall._

 

_“Killeen?” he asks softly, and she grunts an affirmative. He approaches carefully, making sure the alley is otherwise empty, and kneels beside her. “Are you hurt?”_

 

_“Drunk,” she says succinctly._

 

_“You can’t stay here.” He puts a hand under her elbow, urges her to her feet. “I’ll walk you back to the Keep.”_

 

_“Can’t,” Killeen says, and makes a grab for her breeches as they start to slide down. “I’ll get ‘nother chit. Drunk and disorber - orderly. That’ll make two an’ they’ll dock me.”_

 

_Cullen props her against the wall and, since she doesn’t seem able to do it herself, pulls her trousers back up. He assumes she’s decided to piss in the alley until he catches the distinctive scent of semen. The realisation that he’s found her too late clutches at his heart. Kirkwall is no place for **anyone** to be alone and incapable of self-defence, but for women there are a greater number of hazards._

 

I should have come looking sooner, _he berates himself._ I saw she was upset, I know what she’s like when she is — I should have come sooner.

 

I should have never let her out of my sight.

 

_He fastens her belt, and his voice is calm as he asks,“Are you all right? Did he — are you injured?” At her derisive snort, he goes on, “Can you describe him?”_

 

_“Why, in case I want to see him again?” she asks. “Not likely.” She raises her hand, waggles her little finger at him, and starts laughing._

 

_Not as bad as he’d feared, then — some opportunistic bastard taking advantage of her inebriation, but not a forceful attack. If she’ll still find the memory funny when she sobers up, he has no idea, but at least for the moment she’s not distressed._

 

_Doesn’t know what he’d say to her if she **was** , except that it would be quite possibly be more than he should._

 

_“Come on,” he says, arm around her waist to steady her._

 

_“Told you,” she says, “can’t go back.”_

 

_“I’m not taking you to the Keep,” Cullen tells her. “I’m taking you to the Gallows.”_

 

_Is taken completely off guard when she twists sharply out of his grip, shoves him and backs away. “I’m not a mage!” she says, voice shaking. “Not a mage!”_

 

_He reaches for her again as she wavers on her feet. “Killeen —”_

 

_She slaps his hand away hard enough to bruise. “Not a mage!” she says again, back to the wall, and when he moves closer, tries to punch him in the face._

  
_Cullen grabs her wrist as much by instinct as intent, blocks a blow from her other hand and yanks her close, pinning her arms to her side. Killeen struggles desperately, struggles as if she’s fighting for her life, and Maker, Cullen knows the Gallows has no sweet reputation but he’s shocked to realise the name has come to carry such a weight of terror._

 

_“I know you’re not a mage,” he says. “I’m not taking you to the Circle. Calm down, Killeen. I know you’re not a mage. I’m taking you to the Templar quarters where you can sleep this off somewhere safe.”_

 

_Her struggles lessen, cease. “Not a mage,” she whispers._

 

_“I know. It’s all right.”_

 

_It’s no easy task to get her to the Gallows, but he manages it, helps her into his room and lowers her onto the bed. It’s hardly regulation for him to have a woman here, but he’s in favour with Meredith and is confident the Knight-Commander will listen to his explanation should Killeen’s presence be discovered._

 

_He himself will spend the night on the floor._

 

_Killeen rolls over and falls asleep without a word._

 

_Cullen strips his armour and sets it on the stand, although it’ll have to go to the armoury tomorrow to have the scorch marks dealt with. The day has left him rank with sweat and he pulls off his shirt, pours water from the jug into the washbasin._

 

_Behind him, he hears Killeen gasp. “Your back,” she says softly._

 

_It hurts, he knows that, turns to peer over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of purpling bruise. “We’re magic resistant, not magic immune,” he says. “It’ll mend.” He pauses, washcloth in hand, turns to face her. “So long as you don’t go throwing yourself on any more apostates.”_

 

_He hears the anger in his voice too late, as Killeen winces a little. “I didn’t know you were so close. There wasn’t time …” Her tone is unmistakably an apology, and for good measure she adds, “I’m sorry.”_

 

_“Surely by now you know what a mage can do,” Cullen says, sponging himself quickly. “You’re no green recruit.”_

 

_“I said I was sorry,” she says, a little edge to her voice. “And I didn’t ask you to throw yourself in the way, Cullen. You have to take **some** responsibility for those bruises yourself.”_

 

_He tosses the cloth back into the basin and grabs a clean shirt. “Maker’s breath, Killeen, if you think I care about bruises — you were very nearly **killed**. Do **not** do it again.”_

 

_“Oh, yes, ser,” Killeen snaps. “You’re not my commanding officer.”_

 

_“If I were your commanding officer you’d be on latrine duty for a month,” Cullen says. “Since, instead, I’m your friend —” The word comes out without him thinking about it, but it feels right. He’s harbouring her in his quarters to evade a well-deserved disciplinary chit, after all, and that seems to him to be very much the sort of things friends would do for each other — if he had any. “All I can do is ask you. Use a little sense. I know you have some.”_

 

_“If you will,” she says, and after a moment he nods._

 

_“Now get some sleep,” he tells her. He has a bad night ahead of him, he can tell, the fight today and his injuries have the lyrium from his last dose running very low, the song the barest murmur in his blood. The dose he should have taken yesterday is in his drawer, and Cullen knows he should take it — but he’s oddly reluctant to, in front of Killeen. He doesn’t know just how it hits him — none of them do — but he’s seen other Templars whose response is humiliatingly intense, always makes sure to take his dose alone in case he’s one of them._

 

_And if he is, he absolutely does not want Killeen to see him, eyes glazed, muscles twitching as he fights to master the strength singing through his veins, to contain a power greater and older than time itself within the bounds of his mortal flesh._

  
_Instead he makes up a pallet on the floor and lies down, trying to find a position that doesn’t involve the bruises on his back being in contact with the floor. For a while, the discomfort is sufficient to enable him to fight sleep, but eventually his eyes close and —_

 

_It’s not the worst of his dreams, this one — not one of the ones that tormented him almost to madness in the first year after Kinloch’s Circle fell._

 

_It’s only the one where all his friends are killed in front of him while he’s powerless to do anything but watch and scream._

 

_“Cullen, help me,” Simeon sobs, “Cullen, help, Maker, help me! Help me!”_

 

_And he can’t, can’t help, can’t stop it, can’t even die with them —_

 

_A different voice, low and even. “Cullen. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”_

 

_He opens his eyes to his own quarters in the Gallows, to the present, to Killeen Hanmount leaning over him, hand on his shoulder._

 

_“Are you awake?” she asks, and Cullen nods, not trusting his voice. His throat aches as if he’s been screaming in his sleep and he suspects that in fact he has been. “Do you have any wine?”_

 

_He doesn’t want wine, he wants lyrium, wants it urgently, wants it **now**. Doesn’t tell her that, nods again, and points to the shelves behind his desk._

 

_She pours two goblets, waters both, and comes back to sit cross-legged on the floor beside him, putting one of the goblets in his hand. “This’ll help,” she says matter-of-factly. “Spiced is better, but this will help.”_

 

_Cullen sips. “Wine is your solution to many things, it seems.”_

 

_“Only things I can’t stick with a sword,” Killeen says. “And I prefer beer. No, it’s not the alcohol. It’s the taste. Ever notice how things in dreams don’t have a taste? A smell, sometimes, but never a taste.” She sips her own wine. “Once your tongue knows you’re awake, the rest of you tends to follow.” Cullen raises an eyebrow and she gives him a level look. “Do you think you’re the only one who gets bad dreams? I share a room with five other sergeants. Before that I shared a barracks with twenty recruits. Everyone has a bad night, sooner or later.”_

 

Not like mine _, he wants to say, almost **does** say. Sweat breaks out on his forehead as he realises how close he’s come to telling her — telling her things that will change the way she looks at him forever._

 

_Killeen rises easily, gracefully, to her feet, fetches the cloth from the washbasin and returns to kneel beside him. She leans towards him, already closer than he can usually tolerate people to be without his armour, and wipes his face._

 

_Perhaps because it's the cloth touching him, not her hand, he finds he can bear it. It's almost pleasant._

 

_It's oddly insufficient._

 

_“You look so tired, these days,” she says softly, and she is close, too close, not close enough — the wine, watered as it is, is making his head spin and he finds himself thinking that in another moment she will — he will — his imagination stops, there, at what he or she would do, he only knows that he is so tired, has been so tired for so long, and if he — if she —_

  
_“Try to get some sleep,” she says, leaning back, and the moment is gone._

 

Now, with hindsight, Cullen realised that it had not been the product of his sleep-deprived imagination, that feeling that Killeen had been a breath away from … from _something_ he had not, then, been able to imagine past the horrors of his history and the cool blue song of lyrium in his veins. He wondered what would have happened had he reached for her, had she leaned closer to him —

 

_It would have been a disaster_. Maker, he’d barely been able to endure another’s touch in those days without thinking of the worst, last days in Kinloch. Would have flinched from her, or worse — and would have dragged her with him through the worst of his nightmares when he had finally decided to free himself, once and for all, from the chains of lyrium.

 

He could see, now, that she had loved him then, had wanted him — could see too, how thickly the dulling blanket of his addiction had lain over everything he could have, would have, felt.

 

_They knew,_ he thought, old anger, old grief. _They knew what it would do to us because it had already happened to them._

 

“Cullen,” Mia said softly from behind him. “Are you all right?”

 

He turned and gave her a reassuring smile. “Thinking a few things over.”

 

She drew her cloak more tightly around her and came to join him by the fire. “When they’re little, they make your arms ache,” she said. “When they’re older, they make your heart ache.” At his look of incomprehension, she smiled. “Children, Ser Bear. Children.”

 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll return Fel to her family,” he said, feeling himself blush a little at the nickname.

 

“Aye, they must be half-mad with fear for her,” Mia said. “But it wasn’t them I was thinking of. You’re fond of her.”

 

“I told you, she’s not mine,” Cullen said.

 

“I know,” Mia said. “Children have a way of working their way into your heart, though, Cullen, even without ties of blood.”

 

Cullen paused, looking into the fire. “I hope so,” he said at last. “I hope you’re right.” 


	27. In The Keep - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen gets a surprise

_10th Kingsway - 13th Kingsway_

* * *

 

Killeen searched Lowtown’s streets and alleys for days, through every inn and rooming house, every flop house and crowded tenement. She found people who’d seen Jean, or a woman who could well have been Jean, sometimes with a child, sometimes without — but Jean herself remained elusive.

 

Leaving Fraser at _The Blooming Rose,_ where she suspected he’d be getting an education but at least could be confident he wouldn’t get any interesting diseases, Killeen headed for the Keep again.

 

This time it was easier to ignore the twitch of reflex that wanted to send her left, to the Guards’ common room, not right to Captain Aveline’s office, that wanted to raise her hand in salute to officers she no longer answered to.

 

She knocked on Aveline’s door, expecting to hear either _Come_ _in_ or _Go away._

 

“Who is it?” the Captain called, instead.

 

“Killeen.”

 

“Come in, if you’re alone,” Aveline said.

 

 _What the_ —? Killeen opened the door, and stopped dead at the sight of the Guard Captain in her office chair with her cuirass off, and her shirt open …

 

And a baby at her breast.

 

Killeen realised her mouth was hanging open, closed it, found her voice. “Maker’s fucking _balls_.”

 

“Close the door behind you,” Aveline said quite calmly. “I’m pretty sure the men understand the concept but I’ve no interest in providing a visual demonstration.”

 

Killeen closed the door as instructed and tried not to stare. The baby’s energetic suckling made her own breasts ache in sympathy.“Is it, uh, yours?”

 

“No, she’s a stray baby I found on the street.” Aveline said. “Of course she’s mine.”

 

“Yes. Of course. Sorry.” Killeen shook her head slightly, blinked hard. “How, um. Did you manage it?”

 

“The usual way,” Aveline said.

 

Killeen paused. “Captain, did you just make a dirty joke?”

 

“I was certainly trying to,” Aveline said. “Was it any good?”

 

“It wasn’t bad,” Killeen said, dazed. _This is a dream. Obviously. Or I’ve fallen into the Fade. Or gone mad and begun hallucinating._

 

_Aveline just made a dirty joke. And she has a damned **baby**._

 

Killeen felt for a chair and sank into it, staring at the Guard-Captain.

 

“Donnic insists the occasional risque comment from a commanding officer is good for morale,” Aveline said. She detached the baby from her nipple and closed her shirt, then raised the little girl to her shoulder and patted her gently on the back.

 

“I imagine the occasional risque comment from _his_ commanding officer is certainly good for _Donnic’s_ morale,” Killeen said reflexively.

 

“That’s quite good,” Aveline said. “May I use it?”

 

“Please, feel free — Captain, when did you have a _baby_?”

 

“Two months ago,” Aveline said.

 

“ _Why_ , for the Maker’s sake?”

 

Aveline laughed a little. “The usual reasons. Being in love with my husband, wanting to be a mother, Donnic wanting to be a father.”

 

“But you’re a _Guard_ ,” Killeen protested. “Andraste’s tits, you’re _the_ Guard. You’re the Captain!”

 

“I still am,” Aveline said. “Oh, I had to stop going out on patrols for the last months, and it’s taking some work to get my fitness back, but that’s all.” The baby gave a massive burp, and Aveline smiled, and lowered her to the crook of her arm, rocking her gently.

 

“How do you — how do you and Donnic _manage_ it?”

 

“The usual way,” Aveline said again, obviously quite pleased with the line.

 

“You’re a Guard,” Killeen said flatly. “He’s a Guard. You’re his commanding officer. You’re married. You have a baby together.”

 

“Excellent summation of facts, Lieutenant,” Aveline said dryly.

 

“How?” Killeen asked. “Maker’s geriatric truss, Captain, _how_?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure that’s your business,” Aveline said.

 

“No — I — sorry. That’s not how I meant it. I’d really like to know. I have a personal reason for wanting to know.”

 

Aveline paused, studying Killeen’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re finally —?”

 

Killeen felt herself colour a little. “I, um. Am.”

 

“Happy?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Congratulations. But I gather he’s under your command,” Aveline said, nodding. “He just needs to know that when you’re at work, you’re at work. You’re the commanding officer, you set the tone. And if he doesn’t respect that, fire him.”

 

“Yes, uh — actually I’m under _his_ command,” Killeen said.

 

There was a pause. “Haven’t I heard that you’re second in command of the Inquisition forces?” Aveline asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And Cullen Rutherford is the Inquisition’s military commander?”

 

“Um. Yes.”

 

Aveline smiled. “Killeen Hanmount, don’t tell me you’re the first woman in Kirkwall to get Knight-Captain Cullen into bed?”

 

“It wasn’t actually in Kirkwall,” Killeen said. “And he’s not Knight-Captain anymore. To be technical.”

 

“So tell me …” Aveline leaned forward, lowered her voice even though they were alone. “How _is_ he?”

 

“How is Donnic?” Killeen countered.

 

“Incredibly proficient,” Aveline said with a trace of smugness.

 

“Snap,” Killeen said, with a touch of smugness herself.

 

The two women looked at each other a moment and then both burst out laughing. “Templars have changed, then,” Aveline said. “My first husband was a Templar. He was very sweet, very tender … we were both very young, of course. Still, _Cullen Rutherford_ … prettiest man in Kirkwall. Too pretty, really.”

 

"For me?" Killeen asked, and Aveline shook her head.

 

"I meant too pretty for me. I like a man to be ... _manly_."

 

"Oh, he's _manly_ ..." Killeen said suggestively, and Aveline guffawed loudly enough to wake her daughter. The Guard Captain soothed the child, then glanced at Killeen.

 

“Do you want to hold her?”

 

“ _Me_?” Killeen said, shocked.

 

“Yes,” Aveline rose to her feet and crossed to Killeen. “Here.”

 

As Aveline set the child in her arms, Killeen was forced to cradle it or let it fall. The infant was surprisingly heavy as she squirmed and then settled, one tiny fist in her mouth, staring unblinkingly up at Killeen.

 

“She’s so small,” Killeen said in astonishment.

 

“Bigger than she was,” Aveline said. “Which was big enough on the way out, let me tell you.” Killeen looked down at the child’s head and winced, and Aveline added quickly, “It’s not so bad as you think. I mean, it’s not something I’d do recreationally every Saturday night, either, but it’s not as bad as you’d think.”

 

Killeen patted the baby gingerly. “What’s her name?”

 

“Felicity,” Aveline said.

 

“That’s, uh —” _What by the Void was it that people said at such times?_ “A very nice name, Felicity.”

 

As if recognising that she was being discussed, Felicity stopped sucking on her fist and reached out one little hand toward Killeen’s face, then seized on the closest buckle of her coat. Killeen tried to detach her, and Felicity grasped her finger in a surprisingly strong grip instead.

 

“What do you do with her when you have to work?” Killeen asked Aveline.

 

“Donnic works early shift these days. There’s only a few hours when we’re both on duty. One of our neighbours looks after her and brings her in here in the middle of the day for me to feed her.”

 

“And if there’s an emergency?” Killeen asked sceptically. “In the middle of the night?”

 

“Same neighbour. Donnic watches her two in the evenings when she’s tending bar at the _Journeyman’s Rest_.”

 

“Seems like you have it all planned,” Killeen said, trying to tug her finger free of Felicity’s grip. The infant’s grip was surprisingly strong.

 

“Would you expect the Captain of the Guard to be less than organised?”

 

“Of course not,” Killeen said hastily. “I just — Andraste’s tits, Aveline, it’s a surprise.” At the vehemence in her tone, Felicity opened her eyes wide, then gave a squawk which quickly turned into a full-throated wail. “Oh, Maker, I’m sorry! Um … shhh,” she urged the infant. “Shhh, shhh!”

 

“They don’t respond well to verbal orders at that age,” Aveline said, sounding faintly amused. “Give her to me.” Gingerly, Killeen handed the baby over. Aveline rocked her a little, patting her gently, and Killeen was relieved that the penetrating shrieking subsided. “So,” Aveline said after a moment, “you and Cullen. I take it from your question before that you’re not sure it’s going to be smooth sailing.”

 

Killeen paused. “He’s been a bit … over-protective,” she said after a moment. “At times.”

 

“Of _you_?” Aveline said in astonishment.

 

“There was a bit of an incident,” Killeen said. “I got scuffed up around the edges slightly. I think — no, I _know_ — it still spooks him.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Dragon fell on me,” Killeen said succinctly, and Aveline stared at her, and then began to chuckle.

 

“Only you, Killeen. That could only happen to you.”

 

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else,” Killeen said. “It fucking hurt —” She glanced down at the baby. “Um, sorry.”

 

“It’s a bit early to worry about her picking up bad language,” Aveline said. “And I can’t imagine I have much hope of preventing it, anyway, with Donnic and I both working soldiers.”

 

Killeen remembered Fel tagging along behind her, the little voice piping _Maker’s balls!_ when the situation demanded it, and smiled. “Tell her that the Maker liked to play kick-about keep-away,” she suggested. “And that Andraste kept birds. And, if necessary, that the Maker is especially fond of chickens.” She hesitated a little. “Do you, you know, ever worry? About Donnic?”

 

“Yes,” Aveline said, “but not at work. At work I’m his Captain, not his wife.”

 

“I’ll try suggesting that to Cullen,” Killeen said.

 

“He can’t be _that_ over-protective,” Aveline said, “given you’re here on your own.”

 

Guiltily, Killeen remembered the original purpose of her visit to the Keep. “Looking for Jean. A few people say they’ve seen a woman who could well be her, but I haven’t found any trace of her myself, or Thomas. Not in Hightown, or Lowtown.”

 

Aveline frowned. “We’ve put the word out to the usual Darktown informants. No news. Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s no news to be had.”

 

“How about a search?” Killeen asked.

 

“Be serious,” Aveline said. “I could pull in all three shifts and put them on it and we’d still miss anything people really want to keep hidden — and lose good people doing it.”

 

“So, what, Darktown’s outside the law now?” Killeen asked.

 

“It’s certainly outside my definitions of my responsibility to take guards away from protecting good, sensible people going about their business to hunt through that warren for a woman who doesn’t seem to have the sense the Maker gave nugs.”

 

“And her son?” Killeen demanded. “My nephew?”

 

“I’m sorry about him,” Aveline said. “But Killeen, he’s not the only child in Kirkwall, and they’re _all_ under my care. I have to place my resources where they’re best used — and most use.”

 

Not all that long ago, Killeen would have agreed with her. Even now, a part of her saw the sense in Aveline’s words. _But_ … “What would you do, if it was Felicity, who might be in Darktown?”

 

“Go down there myself,” Aveline said softly.

 

Killeen stood. “So,” she said.

 

“Wait—” Aveline said. “Killeen, give us another day or two. If she’s staying in a private house, or if she’s left the city — two good reasons you haven’t been able to find her.”

 

“And the Guard could?”

 

Aveline nodded. “You said yourself, questions get better answers when there’s a Guard asking them.”

 

“You could have started asking days ago,” Killeen said. “Or given me the authority I need to get answers myself.”

 

“Days ago your sister wasn’t _missing_ , you just didn’t know where she was,” Aveline said. “And you _left_ , Killeen, when I was short-handed and thin-stretched.  As I still am, but you're not here to lend a hand, are you? Just as is convenient to you."

 

"I left to — "  _stop  Corypheus_ , except she hadn't known anything about Corypheus then, none of them had. No breach, no Herald, no mysterious Elder One. Just …

 

_Cullen, still stretched thin, still with the marks of sleepless nights tracked across his face and in the shadows beneath his eyes, but his gaze is clearer than she'd seen since the night the Chantry exploded — than perhaps she'd ever seen. "I'm leaving, Kill. Lady Cassandra — she's the Right Hand of the Divine. She's asked me to come with her. The Divine is going to reform the Inquisition, end the war between mages and Templars. Put things right."_

 

_And of course, he's going to go. The seeds of the mage rebellion were sown here in Kirkwall, in the Gallows, by the abuses Cullen refused to believe were occurring. Killeen doubts he could have stopped Meredith, knows that’s not a view he shares. How can he resist the chance to correct his mistake, to make up for what he sees as his failings? Of course, he’s going to go._

 

_He is going to go, and get himself killed throwing himself between someone else and a lightning bolt — or he's going to go, and survive, and find himself with a life elsewhere, somewhere without the memories of horror that every moment in Kirkwall brings them all._

 

_Cullen doesn't, will never, feel for Killeen the way she feels for him, she knows that now — but still, the thought of her days without him, without ever again hearing his light, clipped voice, without seeing his reluctant half-smile ..._

  
_"Cullen, I — " she starts to say._

 

_"Come with me," he says. "I have no idea what the Inquisition’s fighting forces will be like.  I need at least one shield I can trust — and probably help getting the rest into shape.”_

 

_And she can’t say no, can’t shake her head and stand there and watch him walk away and out of her life forever. If all she can be is his friend, she will take it, for every last second she can._

  
And she had; had left without more than a half-muttered explanation to her Captain,  _I have to go._

  
Everything she knew, she'd learned here, in Kirkwall, not small amount of it from watching Aveline, from the moments when Aveline had taken the time to ask an extra question, dispense a piece of advice. Killeen'd come to Kirkwall a rawboned, over-tall girl who could take a punch or throw one: she'd left a soldier who could take orders or give them, on a good day hold her own against a Qunari, on any day calculate how much oats and dried beef would be needed to bring her squad’s provisions up to full.

 

Aveline had every right to be angry.

 

"I had to go with him," Killeen said, and shrugged a little. "I _had_ to. I'm sorry. Don't take it out on my sister."

 

"I don't make decisions as the Captain based on personal considerations," Aveline said. "I meant what I said. You've tried to find her, and haven't. I'll consider that a next-of-kin report. We'll do what we can. And _you_ , stay out of Darktown."

  
"I'll give you a day," Killeen said.

 

"Two," Aveline countered.

 

"Two," Killeen conceded. "Two days. That's all."


	28. Over Breakfast - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Krem does his duty.

_30 August_

* * *

 

  
Cullen woke to the sound of quiet voices.

“You know I can’t do that,” the first said, light enough to be a young man, but firm with years of exercising authority. _Krem_.

“I have money.” That piping voice could only belong to Fel. “You can have it. All of it.”

“Some people would be insulted to have you think they’d take a bribe,” Krem said, sounding amused.

“Are you?”

Krem chuckled. “No. But I’m still not going to _fall asleep_ on watch.”

Cullen opened his eyes and sat up. A little way beyond the glow cast by the campfire’s coals, he could see Krem standing where he could watch both the road, and the diminutive figure beside him. Fel had her pack on her back, and was cradling something in her arms. _Ser Calenhad._

He stood up. “Fel?”

She spun to face him, and then began to back away. Krem took a single long step which took him behind her, and when Fel backed in to him, took a firm hold of her pack. “Running off in the middle of the night is a terrible plan,” he said. “We’d find you straight away, and then everyone will be angry.”

“I have to go!” she said. “Let me go! Please!”

“Can’t,” Krem said. “Sorry, kid.”

She glared at him, and then made a determined effort to bite the hand that held her pack — an effort Krem easily avoided.

“Fel!” Cullen said, crossing the distance between them and taking her by the shoulder. “Krem is doing his job. I’m sure Kill never taught you to take it out on people who have orders, when you don’t agree with those orders.”

“No,” Fel said reluctantly. “Sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” Krem said gravely.

“You can let me go. I won’t run.”

Krem glanced at Cullen, eyebrows up, and Cullen nodded — and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to give pursuit if Fel was lying. Krem let the girl go.

She didn’t run. She took one step toward Cullen and kicked him as hard as she could in the shin.

As was his habit on the road, even in these safer times, he’d slept in his armour, and her foot hit his greave with a clang he heard but didn’t feel. Fel, on the other hand, clearly felt it, hopping on one foot and hissing words between her teeth that she could only have picked up from Killeen.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked.

“Yes!” she said, glaring at him with tear-filled eyes. She put her foot down, winced, and drew it up again.

Cullen picked her up, pack, kitten and all, and carried her back to the embers of the fire. He set her down, set a few more branches on the coals and blew until they began to catch, then turned back to Fel.

She was curled around the kitten in her arms, refusing to look at him. Cullen knelt down. “May I look at your foot?”

She sniffed. “Why?”

“Because if you’ve broken a toe, it needs to be strapped so it doesn’t heal crooked and give you a life-long limp.”

Fel thought about that, and then grudgingly nodded, and held her foot out. Cullen unlaced her boot and drew it off as gently as he could, then her sock. Her big toe was already swollen.

“I think you did break a toe, cubling,” he said. “I’ll wake Stitches, and he’ll wrap it for you.”

“Fine,” Fel muttered.

Cullen stood, and then paused. “If you’re thinking of escaping again, you won’t get very far on one foot.”

“I know!” Fel said. “I’m not stupid, all right? I know I’ve failed Ser Calenhad and you’re going to murder him! You don’t need to rub it in!”

Cullen knelt back down. “Cubling, you haven’t failed him. And I’m not going to murder him.”

“I heard you! That’s what _putting him out of his misery means_!” Fel said. Her lip quivered. “I promised I’d keep him safe! I promised him!”

“Fel.” Cullen put his arm around her, and drew her to him despite her resistance. “Ser Calenhad is suffering. He’s not going to get better. It would be kinder to end his life now, but cubling, I would never do that without asking you.”

Her thin shoulders shook, but she refused to cry. “I promised him it would be all right.”

“It’s not wrong to make promises like that,” Cullen said carefully, “when people — or animals — need to hear them. But we can’t always keep them.”

Fel shook her head. “Kill says that you should _always_ keep your word.”

“Some promises are different, cubling, like when you tell someone who’s sick, or hurt, that they’ll be all right, even if you don’t know that they will be.” And how many times had he said something similar himself? To a wounded man in the infirmary, or a soldier struck down on the field. _Barely more than a scratch … the healers will have you up and about in no time …_ “Those promises are more like … prayers.”

“I prayed,” Fel said. “I prayed to the Maker to make him better. But He didn’t.”

“The Maker has His own reasons for what He does,” Cullen said. “Perhaps He knows it’s Ser Calenhad’s time to be gathered to His side.”

Fel’s lip quivered. “Sister Celia at Redcliffe Chantry says that cats and dogs d-don’t go to the Maker’s s-side.”

“Sister Celia is wrong,” Cullen said firmly. “After all, you’ve heard the song about Andraste’s mabari, haven’t you?” Fel nodded. “The Maker knows that we love our animals, and that they love us. He knows they can be as brave, and as loyal, as any one of us can, and He loves them too.”

Fel considered that. “I s-still don’t want him to d-die!”

“I know, cubling,” Cullen said. “May I see him?”

She hesitated, and sat up a little, letting him see the kitten cradled in her arms. The little scrap of fur was, remarkably, still alive — Cullen had not expected it to survive the night. He touched the tiny head gently, with one finger, and was surprised when the kitten lifted its head a little, more surprised to feel the minute vibration of an inaudible purr.

“I think he’s a little bit stronger,” Cullen said. “Do you want Stitches to look at him as well, when he fixes your toe?”

Fel nodded, and with a final pat to her shoulder, Cullen got to his feet and went to find the Charger’s surgeon.

Stitches examined Fel’s foot, and agreed the toe was probably broken. He splinted and strapped it, with a few pointed pieces of advice about kicking armoured persons while wearing soft shoes, and then turned his attention to Ser Calenhad.

Fel watched anxiously as the surgeon examined the kitten’s wounds. “Can you fix him?”

“I can make a poultice for these cuts,” Stitches said. “That might help draw out the infection.”

“I’ve been doing that,” Fel said. “Elfroot and spindleweed. Two to one.”

“That’s right,” Stitches said, surprised.

“I learned _all_ the healing herbs,” Fel said. “I had some Royal Elfroot too, but I ran out.”

“It’s a tricky one,” Stitches agreed. “Hard to find. Still, you’ve done pretty well for this little fellow.”

“Will he be all right?” Fel asked.

Stitches hesitated, and Cullen found he was holding his breath. “I don’t know,” the dark-skinned surgeon said at last, “and that’s the truth. He’s very small, and badly hurt, but he’s made it this long, and some of his injuries are starting to heal. So long as you keep him warm, and fed, and we keep poulticing those wounds, he has a chance.”

“You see!” Fel said to Cullen.

“I was wrong, cubling,” Cullen said. “I didn’t think he’d live the night, let alone be doing better.”

“So you won’t kill him?” Fel asked, and when Cullen shook his head, persisted, “Promise? A real promise, not a prayer one.”

“I promise,” Cullen said. “But you have to promise, too. If he gets worse, if he gets too sick, and it’s time to let him go, you have to promise me you will.”

“He _won’t_!” Fel insisted.

“I hope he won’t,” Cullen said. “But if he does, cubling …”

Fel shook her head. “You didn’t let _Kill_ go when she was hurt bad!”

“Kill was hurt, but not so badly she couldn’t get better,” Cullen said. He hesitated. _Is she old enough to understand if I tell her?_ “When I lived in Kirkwall, I knew a woman there, a lot like Kill actually. Her name is Aveline. She’s a very brave, very good woman. When she was younger, her husband was very badly hurt, in a way he couldn’t get better from. The right thing for her to do was to be merciful, to take his life rather than let him suffer. It wasn’t easy for her, but she did it.”

“She killed him?” Fel asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. It was a kindness to him. She loved him very much.” He cupped her shoulder with one hand. “It was the right thing, the responsible thing to do. You have to promise me that you’ll be responsible too, if Ser Calenhad needs you to be.”

Fel bowed her head over the kitten. “Okay,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I promise.”

Nearby, someone cleared their throat, and Cullen looked up to see Stanton standing on the other side of the campfire. “Uncle Cullen,” he said respectfully. “Miss Felandaris. The Chargers are cooking breakfast. Would you like me to fetch you some?”

“Thank you,” Cullen said. He looked down at Fel, observing with some amusement that hunger and resentment were at war in her expression. “Fel?”

“Yes,” she said at last, and when Cullen narrowed his eyes, “thank you.”

Stanton went off on his errand, and Fel glared at his back. “Why is he even here, anyway?”

“He and Mia are on their way home,” Cullen said. “We were looking for you on the way.”

“Home from where?”

“From visiting Skyhold,” Cullen said.

Fel set her chin. “Why do _they_ get to visit? I used to _live_ there!”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Mia,” Cullen said. “I wasn’t much older than you the last time I saw her, in fact. And I will ask your parents if you can visit, as well, when we get to Redcliffe.”

“I don’t want to go back there!” Fel said. “Mother will kill Ser Calenhad!”

“I won’t let that happen,” Cullen said. “And they need to know you’re all right. They must be very worried. Think how worried you’d be if you couldn’t find Ser Calenhad.”

“I hate it there!” Fel burst out. “It’s so _boring_! And everyone is stupid!”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it, if you give it a chance,” Cullen said.

Fel snorted, as if he’d said something particularly obtuse, such as suggesting sourcing Skyhold’s wheat from Tevinter instead of Orlais. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it with a snap as Stanton returned, carrying two bowls of pottage.

“Thank you,” Cullen said, accepting his. Fel muttered something that _could_ have been thank you, and took her own bowl from Stanton. “Don’t forget to break your own fast, Stanton.”

“I have, ser,” the boy assured him, crouching by the fire and holding his hands out to the warmth. “I helped Grim with the cooking.” He smiled a little. “Not that mother would call it _cooking_ , exactly.”

“Soldier’s fare,” Cullen said. “And better than much I’ve eaten. There’s little luxury in the military life.”

“ _I_ like it,” Fel said defiantly.

“Are you too be a soldier too, Miss Felandaris?” Stanton asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe a quartermaster. Or an apothecary. Or a scout. I haven’t decided yet.”

“You would make a good scout,” Stanton said. “I couldn’t have got so far from home, without being seen. I _didn’t_ , the one time I tried.”

“Well, of course _you_ couldn’t,” Fel said disdainfully. Stanton lowered his head humbly, and Fel eyed him, then added more generously, “You’re too big. You can’t help that, I suppose.” She paused. “Where were you going?”

“Kirkwall,” Stanton said. “To visit Uncle Cullen.”

“Your mother said Denerim,” Cullen objected.

Stanton blushed a little. “That’s what I put in the note. So they wouldn’t worry. But I was going to take ship in Denerim to Kirkwall. With the three coppers I’d saved.”

“I didn’t think of leaving a note,” Fel said thoughtfully. “I should have. And said I was going to Denerim, too.”

“But Denerim is the other side of Redcliffe to here,” Stanton said.

Fel rolled her eyes. “That’s the _point_.”

Cullen had a sudden vision of a future which included retrieving Fel from the highways and byways of Fereldan on a regular basis. “If you run away again, Fel,” he said, “I doubt I’ll be able to persuade your parents to trust you enough to come and visit Kill and I at Skyhold.”

She sighed, and nodded glumly.

“Now, eat up,” Cullen said. “Once you’ve finished your breakfast, we’ve a long ride today.”


	29. In Redcliffe - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen is surprised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, comments are plot-bunny catnip! (bunnynip?)

_3rd Kingsway_

* * *

 

Cullen could feel the beginning of a headache tightening his temples. The _Gull and Lantern_ was hot and noisy. Redcliffe village was thriving, now peace and security had been restored to the Hinterlands, and with the usual evening crowd supplemented by the Chargers, the inn’s common room was full.

Mia had excused herself early, saying she wanted to write some letters. Cullen knew he should do the same — but he had sent word of their safe arrival back to Skyhold as soon as they reached the Inquisition camp on the outskirts of the village, and any letter he wrote to Killeen would have little chance of overtaking her on the road.

He could attempt to sleep, but the past few nights had shown him the folly of trying to do so until the inn’s evening customers made their unsteady way home.

Glancing around to assure himself that Stanton was still safely tucked between Krem and Dorian, and that Krem at least seemed sober enough to make sure the lad came to no harm, Cullen slipped out the door into the welcome cool and relative quiet of the evening air.

The _Gull and Lantern_ was hardly ideal for an extended stay, but when Cullen had decided against using the Inquisition’s influence with Arl Teagan to secure lodging in Redcliffe Castle, he had not expected they would be breaking their journey for more than a day. He’d had vague ideas of returning Fel to her parents’ care, placating the child with a promise of a future visit to Skyhold and extracting a promise from her mother that Ser Calenhad would be given a chance to heal.

From Fel’s mention in her letter that her mother had gotten fat, Cullen had guessed that Fel would soon have a younger brother or sister — but he had been startled to see, when Anandra opened the door to his knock, that she was evidently well-advanced in pregnancy. _It has only been a few months since she left Skyhold, surely …_ He had little experience to draw on, but even that little had suggested to him that Anandra was closer to full-term than those few months could account for.

She had met his surprised gaze, and said flatly, “No, it isn’t my husband’s. Yes, I’m an ungrateful whore. No, he didn’t have to keep me once he found out. Yes, I’m very grateful. Does that cover it?”

“Mistress Anandra, I thought no such —” Cullen had started to say, then had realised Anandra wasn’t listening, instead looking past him to where Fel stood, slightly lopsided to keep her weight off her injured foot, clutching Ser Calenhad tightly.

“Felandaris, where in the Void have you been? Half the militia’s been looking for you! When your father gets home, young lady, he’ll have a few things to say to you, mark my word.”

“She’s quite safe,” Cullen had said unnecessarily.

“Thank you for returning her.” Anandra had put her hands on her hips and glared at her daughter. “Put that filthy animal down and get inside, Fel. This instant!”

“I won’t!” Fel cried.

“The kitten is getting better —” Cullen had tried to explain.

And, thank the Maker, Mia had taken charge. She had swept past him as if he wasn’t there, taken Anandra by the arm, and steered her into the house, saying, “You shouldn’t be on your feet, Mistress Anandra. Let’s all sit down, and I’ll make some tea.” A glance backward. “Fel and everyone will be just fine out here.”

The house had been less than spotless, although the dust and dirt tracked over the floor were relatively recent. Confirming it, Fel’s mother had muttered an apology as she sank into a chair in the kitchen — an apology Mia promptly dismissed as unnecessary. Making tea for them all with brisk efficiency, Mia had chattered brightly about how hard _she’d_ found it to keep things clean and tidy when she was expecting, and how tired one got, and how impossible it was to bend.

And Anandra had certainly looked tired as she sat sipping her tea while Mia whisked around the kitchen setting it to rights — had looked, to Cullen, exhausted. Mia’s gentle questions elicited the information that Anandra had no family nearby, nor women friends. In between her sentences, Cullen had heard other, unspoken words: the isolation of a women whose body betrayed to any observer that she had not been faithful to the husband risking his life to protect the very people she now found herself living among; the difficult relationship between a mother with no-one else to turn to and a daughter resenting the upheaval of her life; a marriage strained to breaking point and a home always on the uneasy edge of argument.

It had taken all Cullen’s efforts to persuade Anandra to allow Fel to bring Ser Calenhad into the house, and then only on the condition he stay in the cellar. Fel, limping into the kitchen with the kitten in her arms, had insisted that in that case, she would sleep in the cellar as well. With the air of a woman who could not summon the energy for one more argument, Anandra had agreed.

Leaving the house, Cullen had thought it worth a day’s break in their journey to have the chance to speak to Fel’s father, although to what useful end he was not entirely sure. _At least,_ he’d thought, directing their little company toward the inn _, at least I’ll have the chance to take the measure of the man_. He had never met Recruit Rennett, one of Corporal Vale’s men, although he knew the man had acquitted himself well in the defence of the refugees at the Crossroads. _Perhaps he can be persuaded to promise Fel a visit to Skyhold, and perhaps that will keep the peace between her and her mother for a little._

However, he had learned the next day that, informed of his daughter’s safe return, Rennett had immediately returned to his usual duties, and would be on patrol for several days. Such devotion to duty was commendable, Cullen was sure — indeed, back in Kirkwall he would have disapproved of any man who’d scanted his professional responsibilities for personal considerations.

And it was that thought that gave him pause. _Back in Kirkwall …_

_Killeen has her feet on his desk, her boots adding new scars to the polished wood to join the others she has left there over the years. He should protest but there have been times when the sight of those scuffs and scratches and their reminder of unflappable, insubordinate, utterly dependable Kill Hanmount have been the only thing that allows him to hold on. The only thing that keeps him waiting until the shift-change bell to take his dose, instead of ten minutes early, thirty, an hour … the only thing that keeps him from draining the bottle and striding down to the quartermaster to requisition more._

_“You can’t be serious,” Kill says flatly._

_“I am,” Cullen tells her. “These allegations are serious, and demand action.”_

_“They’re ridiculous!” Killeen retorts. “Captain Aveline wouldn’t know how to **coddle** anyone if she wanted to! And the Guard is in better shape than ever, at least, since I’ve been here.”_

_“Nonetheless.” He sighs, sinks into his own chair. “Trust your judgement as I do, I can’t ignore these complaints based only on your word. I have no choice.”_

_“There must be **someone** they’ll listen to,” Killeen says. She stretches her legs, and Cullen hears a new gouge joining the others. Maker’s breath, it’s a liberty he’d allow no-one else, not even the Champion of Kirkwall herself —_

_“There is,” he says, pulls paper and quill toward him, and begins to write._ Champion Hawke, as a courtesy for your past service, be aware that I have received complaints about your frequent companion, Guard-Captain Aveline. She is accused of coddling her men and weakening law enforcement … _He finishes the letter, seals it, and holds it out to Killeen. “Deliver this to the Champion on your way back to the Keep.”_

_“Yes, ser,” she says, her mocking emphasis reminder that he in no way has the authority to command her — but she is smiling as she takes the letter, and for the first time in weeks Cullen feels as if he may have done something right._

_The thought is a nonsense, of course. He does his duty each and every day, keeping order in the Gallows and bringing in those apostates who survive their arrests. It is a heavy responsibility, protecting Kirkwall from the threats posed by those cursed with magic, but there have been no Abominations within the Kirkwall Circle. The mages complain at the restrictions on their freedom, of course, but mages always do, always weep and wail and make up false allegations against their Templar guards ..._

_And that is all they are, false allegations, no matter how pitiable the man or woman making them. Although …_

_Outside, the bell rings for change of shift. Cullen reaches for his desk drawer, the thought skittering away, finds the little blue bottle waiting. His hands shake as he flicks out the cork and then —_

And then the mages, and their complaints, were forgotten.

 _Back in Kirkwall_ he had not allowed himself to see that devotion to duty could be just as secure a hiding place from truths that should be faced, conversations that should be had, as the bottom of a bottle or the back rooms at the _Blooming Rose._

Cullen had called the Iron Bull over, told him they’d be staying on several more days.

Which had meant a few more nights at the _Gull and Lantern_ than he’d planned, or than he liked.

_Still, the rest will be good for Mia. She didn’t complain on the way here, but we travelled faster than can have been comfortable for her, and it’s many days further to South Reach._

And Stanton had been making good use of his time, watching the Chargers practice and, Cullen had been pleased to see, working diligently at the exercises the Iron Bull had set him. _No sword until you prove you can bear it,_ the Qunari had declared. Cullen remembered well the frustration of being set to improving his strength and wind when all he wanted was to learn to fight. The requirement was as much to weed out those without the necessary discipline and determination as to prepare the body for the rigours of military training — and Stanton, so far, had showed no signs of giving up.

He spent time with Dorian, too, asking endless questions about mages and magic, about Tevinter and the other places Dorian had seen in his travels. In fact, he spent almost more time with the mage than with the Chargers, Dorian spinning elaborate stories of the Imperium and the Fade and all places in between and Stanton hanging breathlessly on every word. Dorian’s quick wit and exotic airs had the boy enthralled —

Cullen frowned up at the night sky. _That is all it is, surely? The lad’s too young …_


	30. In Redcliffe - Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian dislikes rustic decor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains references to family violence.

_4th Kingsway_

* * *

 

Redcliffe was charming, Dorian supposed, if one liked dank cold and the smell of goats. He himself would infinitely have preferred Val Royeaux, or Halamshiral, or at a pinch, Denerim. _I wonder if that child can be persuaded to run away somewhere **civilised** next time_ , he thought idly, picking his way down the stairs that led to the docks. That there would be a next time, Dorian had no doubt. _The dashing Commander might delude himself, but I have seen that **anywhere-but-here** expression all too often to miss it._

_In the mirror, granted, and I was older, but I don’t think I’m wrong._

And there, by the wharf, was the dashing Commander himself. _I see I’m not the only one longing for some air that doesn’t reek of livestock._ Cullen’s hair was set to a blaze of gold by the sunlight, and his thoughtful expression reminded Dorian of the cover of a book he’d been quite fond of as a teenager. _The Templar’s Trial,_ it had been called, the implausible tale of a young Templar tempted to forsake his vows by a series of persistent suitors. Dorian had spent many pleasurable hours with that book.

 _Ah, happy times._ He paused a little way from Cullen, and hailed him.

The Commander started a little, and turned. “Dorian,” he said. “A fine view, is it not?”

“I was just admiring it,” Dorian said, and winked. The Commander took a moment to grasp his meaning, and then blushed fetchingly, and quickly turned his attention back to the lake. “I’m sorry, Commander,” Dorian said without an ounce of sincerity as he moved to also stand admiring the view. “Embarrassing you is about as sporting as nug hunting with chain lightning.”

“So of course, you can’t resist,” Cullen said dryly.

Dorian laughed. “Of course not! In Tevinter we have a word for people who play fair. Idiots. Also, corpses.”

“I hope you’re not teaching my nephew too many of the attitudes of the Imperium,” Cullen said.

“Like regular bathing?” Dorian said. “Maker forbid! Have no fear, Commander, I’m not trying to persuade him of the virtues of slavery or kicking a man when he’s down.”

“That’s generally the best time to kick him,” Cullen said absently, reminding Dorian that the former Templar was a veteran of Kirkwall’s bloody streets, _despite how chivalrous and decorative he is_ , “Particularly if he’s showing signs of getting up again. I simply … noticed he had been spending a great deal of time with you. If he’s a nuisance, send him away.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Because there are so many other diverting entertainments in this charmingly rustic environment? No, he’s no nuisance, Commander. Quite polite, and not unintelligent.”

“He does seem to enjoy your company.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I wondered if it was … because you and he have something in common?”

For a moment Dorian was speechless. Speechless in surprise at the insinuation, from Cullen who had never shown the slightest concern at Dorian’s preferences. And in surprise at his own surprise, _for surely by now I should have learnt not to expect understanding from anyone,_ and in a brief, bitter anger at the wearying unfairness of it all. “I really have no idea, Commander,” he said at last. “If you’ll excuse me, the breeze is a little chill.”

He turned to make his way back to the inn, then stopped as Cullen said, “Dorian. Have you seen any signs in Stanton?”

“Signs.” Dorian swung back, planted his staff and rested one arm nonchalantly over the head. _What **signs** exactly, Commander? What do Ferelden fathers watch out for in their sons, to catch unwanted tendencies early enough to beat it out of their brats? Lisping? Playing with dolls? Wearing mother’s jewellery? Terribly sorry, Commander, I didn’t do **any** of that and look at me now._

“Something others might not notice,” Cullen said earnestly. “I thought perhaps you’d … seen something. And that was why you were … so often in his company.”

 _I think_ , Dorian thought distantly, _I might be about to get seriously angry._ He put all the ice of one of darling Divine Victoria’s best frost spells in his voice. “He’s a little on the young side, Commander.”

And was utterly shocked when Cullen shrugged, and said, “Not as young as some.”

“I don’t know what you think I _am_ ,” Dorian started to say.

Cullen interrupted him. “Please, Dorian. I know it’s not something he can help. I’m not angry, if it’s true — Maker knows he’ll need guidance, teaching, and I’d rather it came from you than anyone else I can think of.”

Dorian realised his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a snap. _Not my **most** attractive look, stunned druffalo_. “Are you saying that you _want_ me to — Andraste’s tits, man, he’s a _child_!”

“I know,” Cullen said quietly. He turned away again, leaning on the wharf’s railing. “And I know he’d have to go to a Circle eventually, but …” Dorian rearranged his thoughts rather radically as Cullen went on, “Even with the Templar order rebuilding, the Circles are hardly stable, and there’s little way to tell yet how … mages may be treated. I’d not send him to one, if he could be otherwise safe — but I have seen what can happen when mages are not taught and watched, too many times.”

“Commander.” Dorian joined Cullen at the railing, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Cullen. There’s not an ounce of magic that I can detect in your nephew. He’s a good, solid, Ferelden lad.”

Cullen looked unutterably relieved. “Thank the Maker.” Then he coloured a little. “I mean — I have nothing against mages, of course. Not any more. It’s just —”

_Just that sending a boy you know and like to a lifelong prison that might be as bad as Kirkwall’s Gallows is enough to give anyone sleepless nights._

_But you’d do it anyway, because that’s the Ferelden way._

_You’re a friend, and not a bad man, Commander Cullen — but I don’t think I’ll be telling you about any mage-children who catch my attention._

“I understand,” Dorian said. He let his hand drop.

He might have tried to open the Commander’s mind a little more to the possibility of life outside the Circles for southern mages, but before he could frame the words, a cry from behind them made both men turn back toward the village.

Fel’s mother, stumbling down the steps in danger of losing her balance and her footing, called out again, “Help! Help!”

Cullen sprinted toward her and met her halfway down the stairs, steadying her. “Mistress Anandra — the child?”

She shook her head. “Rennett,” she panted. “Back. Hurry! He’s _killing_. Fel.” She sank to the ground despite Cullen’s efforts to hold her on her feet, doubling over.

“See to her,” Cullen snapped at Dorian, and took off at a run.

 _Andraste’s frilly knickers._ There had been murder in Cullen’s brown eyes, and murder would be done if Fel had been hurt, of that Dorian had no doubt. _And here I am stuck with an exceptionally gravid and incipiently hysterical housewife._

He did the only thing he could think of: planted his staff firmly in the ground and sent a flare of energy directly upwards. The concussion was silent, but tangible enough to get the attention of anyone who missed the light-show, and sure enough, seconds later the Iron Bull appeared at a run, closely followed by Dalish, Krem and Stitches.

“Help her,” Dorian said tersely.

Without question or argument — and if either Dorian or the Bull had been willing to use the word _love_ to describe what was between them, that would have been one of the things Dorian _loved_ most about the Qunari — the Bull nodded, and bent down to scoop up the woman in his massive arms.

“I might need some backup at Fel’s house,” Dorian said, and bolted after Cullen.

When he reached the house, the door was open, the lock splintered.

“Friendly at the front,” he called, having no desire to have his nose broken in mistake for Fel’s father, and headed inside.

The house was empty. He found the back door, which led to the kitchen garden, filled with leeks and carrots and, at the moment, Cullen — Cullen with an intent, focused expression that Dorian had never seen before, even during the fiercest of their battles over the chessboard. His pulse ticked up a notch, as if he’d seen the glow of a rift on the horizon.

“The barn,” he said, as Cullen’s head snapped in the same direction. Stride by stride, they hurdled the low wall of the garden and sprinted toward the barn.

Fel was backed against the far wall of the barn, one cheekbone red and the eye on that side swelling shut, clutching a scrap of white fur that could only be Ser Calenhad. Her father was facing her, fists clenched — and between them was Cullen’s nephew, white-faced but resolute.

“You really oughten to do that, ser,” he said politely but firmly. “You’ll regret it later.”

“Get out of the way, boy,” Fel’s father said, and when Stanton shook his head, the man swung.

Cullen charged.

Dorian flung a shield indiscriminately over all four of them a split second before Cullen hit Rennett with a tackle that sent them both into the wall. He beckoned to the children. “Come on, quickly now!” Fel and Stanton scurried around the edge of the wall to him as Cullen and Rennett began to get to their feet, Stanton with his arm protectively around Fel’s shoulders as she limped as fast as she could. Dorian pushed them out of the door and turned back as Cullen seized Rennett by the throat and punched him in the face, a hard right cross with all Cullen’s not-inconsiderable body weight behind it.

The shield held, although it wouldn’t much longer against blows of that kind of force. Rennett was staggered, but not stunned, and wrenched himself free. The two men circled each other warily.

“Perhaps we could all calm down?” Dorian suggested.

“Are you him?” Rennett snarled at Cullen. “ _Are you him?_ ” He swung at Cullen, who dodged easily. Dorian sighed. _On your own head be it, man. I’ll keep him from killing you — for his sake._

Cullen ducked one wild hay-maker, caught another on his forearm with no visible effort, side-stepped a third with no attempt to return the blows. Dorian didn’t think that was a hopeful sign. The glimpses of Cullen’s face he could see as two men edged around each other showed him a set expression, cool and watchful, a man gone beyond anger into cold, lethal, rage.

Rennett swung again and Cullen stepped aside, then caught him by the shoulders as his momentum carried him forward and ran him directly into the wall. Rennett bounced, stunned, and Cullen spun him around and hit him beneath the ribs, a vicious jab that doubled the other man over. Cullen took him by the collar, jerked him upright, and head-butted him.

Fel’s father went down like a sack of meal and Cullen kicked him hard in the ribs.

Dorian sensed a presence behind him and saw a horned silhouette cast in shadow on the barn floor. “Might be time to break this up?” he said to the Bull, as Rennett rolled over and Cullen aimed another kick at the man.

“Yeah,” said the Bull. Dorian cast another shield over all participants as the Bull lunged forward, wrapped Cullen up from behind and hoisted him off his feet. Cullen struggled, and Dorian heard the Bull grunt as he absorbed the Commander’s blows, but the Qunari held firm, swinging Cullen away from Rennett’s prone form. “He’s down,” the Bull said. “It’s over. It’s _over_.”

Cullen stopped fighting, and the Bull carried him a couple of steps toward the door and set him down. “Go check on the kids,” he said, gave Cullen a shove to get him on his way.

With one last glare towards the prostrate man on the barn floor, Cullen stalked out.

Dorian knelt down beside Rennett, assessing the damage that had penetrated the shields he’d cast.

“I’d like to say this won’t hurt a bit,” he told the man, with a smile that showed off his white, even teeth to their best advantage. “But that would be, I’m afraid … a _lie_.”

 


	31. By The Well - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Iron Bull explains political realities.

_4th Kingsway_

* * *

 

Leaving Rennett to Dorian and the Bull, Cullen strode out of the barn, pulse still pounding in his ears. His right hand still stung from the punch he'd landed on the other man's jaw, but when he looked at it, there was only a slight redness to the knuckles. There had been the blue flicker of a shield, he remembered. _Dorian_. The mage had saved Rennett from at least some of the punishment he deserved.

 _Not all of it,_ Cullen thought with grim satisfaction, recalling the feeling of the other man's nose breaking under the impact of his forehead.

After the dim light of the barn, the clear autumn day was blindingly bright, and he nearly tripped over Stanton, who was standing by the door. Cullen gripped the boy's shoulder. "Are you all right, lad?" Stanton nodded, still pale. "Where's Fel?"

Stanton gestured, and led the way to where Fel was crouched by a haystack, her thin little body hunched protectively around Ser Calenhad. Cullen knelt down beside her. "Let me see, cubling" he said gently.

Rather than turning her bruised face toward him, Fel uncurled a little and offered him the kitten. "He's all right, I think," she said. "I tripped but I made sure not to land on him."

To Cullen's inexpert eye, the kitten seemed much the same. "May I?" he said, and when Fel nodded, carefully took the scrap of fur and handed it to Stanton. "Hold him for a moment," he said, and the boy nodded wordlessly again, gently taking the kitten. _Shocked_ , Cullen thought, _and no wonder._

That was not his most urgent concern, though. He took Fel's chin gently and turned her face to the light. The black eye would be a good one, but her cheekbone wasn't misshapen, and there was no bloom of blood in the white of her eye that might portend an injury to her vision. He was relieved: Rennett's blows had been clumsy but powerful, and Cullen had feared he could have done serious damage to a child as slight as Fel. "Back of his hand?" he asked, and she nodded. "Did he hit you anywhere else?"

"No. Stanton —" She stole a glance at the boy. "Got in the way of him, and I ran. I wouldn't have, except Ser Calenhad."

"Running was the right thing to do," Cullen assured her.

"I'm not a coward!"

"I know." Cullen searched for the right words. "You're just smart enough to make a tactical retreat."

A shadow fell over them, and Cullen looked up to see the Iron Bull looming above him. The Qunari hunkered down beside Fel. "Hey, kid," he said. "Nice shiner. Your first?"

"Uh-huh," Fel said.

"Congratulations," the Bull said. "First one hurts the worst, and now you've got that over with. Listen, your mother's all right. She ran to get Cullen to help you — the Chargers are looking after her."

"I don't care!” Fel said. "I hate her! She should never have brought us here!"

"That's probably true," the Iron Bull said, "but people make stupid choices when they're backed into corners. Now, I'm going to have a conversation with your father, and Cullen is going to go up to the castle and tell the Arl what happened before he happens to hear it from anyone else." He glanced at Cullen. "Might want to pick the hay out of your hair first, though.

Cullen brushed his hand through his hair, dislodging several pieces of hay, and looked down at his now-less-than pristine clothes. Drops of blood from Rennett's nose splattered the front of his shirt, and at some point in the fight he'd clearly rolled over a cow pat. "Arl Teagan can wait."

"A word?" the Bull said, standing.

Cullen walked a little way away from the children and around the corner of the barn, with the Qunari, and the Bull put an arm around his shoulders. "You've just beaten seven colours of shit out of a man who's convinced you're the father of his wife's unborn child. Now, who do you want to be the first person to tell the Arl about it? Him, or you?"

Cullen gaped. "I — I'm _not_ , that is, I _never_ , I hardly know the woman!”

" _Someone_ knew her back in Skyhold, and here you are, bringing home the kid who ran away from her father's house to try and find _you_. He's just a recruit in the militia — you're the Commander of the Inquisition. And you've just done your best to kill him for disciplining his own child. What sort of suspicions would you have, if you were him?"

"That’s — it's absurd," Cullen said.

"To anyone who knows how hopeless you are with women, sure," the Bull said. "How well does the Arl know you? What kind of impression of the Inquisition is he going to get from this little incident?"

“Dorian saw — _you_ saw —”

“And a Tevinter mage and a Qunari Tal-Vashoth are just who you want to vouch for you in Ferelden," the Bull said. "Clean yourself up. Go up to the castle, take Krem and Grim — they scrub up fine — tell the Arl you're there to request his protection for Fel and her mother on behalf of the Inquisition, and just sort of slip in a mention that you’ve already given him a hiding. Oh, and don't let Dalish or Stitches mess with the kid's face. Won't hurt for the Arl to get a look at it once it's started turning interesting colours tomorrow."

"Thank you," Cullen said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll take the children down to Mia, make myself presentable, and go up to the castle."

"Yeah, one more thing," the Bull said, and punched Cullen in the mouth.

He pulled the blow, or it would have sent Cullen sprawling, unprepared as he was. It was still powerful enough to rock him on his heels, and he took a step backward, tasting blood, hands automatically rising to block and counter the next blow.

The Iron Bull stood flat-footed, hands at his side, and slowly Cullen unclenched his fists. The Bull nodded. "Now it looks more like a fair fight, and a little less like an ass-kicking."

"A deserved, um, ‘arse-kicking’," Cullen pointed out, blotting blood from his lip with his cuff.

"Oh, no question," the Bull said. "But how badly do you want to get tied up in a jurisdictional pissing match with the Arl of Redcliffe, and how much do you want to sort this shit out so a woman and child can sleep safe at night?"

"Maybe you should talk to Arl Teagan," Cullen said. “You seem to have a better grasp of the diplomatic essentials than I do.”

The Iron Bull laughed. "Way above my pay grade, Commander."

“Possibly above mine,” Cullen said ruefully, wishing for the presence of Lady Montilyet, _who would probably not only sort everything out but manage to get the lot of us a medal and the freedom of Redcliffe in the bargain._

Cullen had no illusions that he was in any way qualified to negotiate for the Inquisition with the nobility. Even as Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, with his lack of patience with pointless dances of protocol and precedence buffered by the cool blue distance of lyrium, he’d had little success winning real co-operation from what was left of Kirkwall’s better families. Since joining the Inquisition, he’d happily left it to Killeen to deal with the pricklier personalities among their suppliers and to Lady Montilyet to soothe the ruffled feathers of their allies.

But they were not there, and he was. And having called the dance, the piper was his to pay.

He went back to Fel and Stanton. “Come on, cubling,” he said, hoisting the girl in his arms. “Let’s get you down to Mia.”

He carried her back down to the inn, Stanton trotting alongside with Ser Calenhad cradled carefully in his arms. When they reached the _Gull and Lantern_ Mia was waiting on the porch. She looked first at Stanton, and imperceptibly relaxed — started to reach out to him, and stopped herself.

"How's Mistress Anandra?" Cullen asked.

"The midwife is with her," Mia said. Cullen raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and she narrowed her eyes, glanced at Fel and Stanton and back at him. _Not before the children,_ that glance said as clear as words. She opened the door of the inn for him, and Cullen carried Fel inside, and then up the stairs.

The door to Mia's room was closed; from behind it, Cullen could hear a woman weeping. _Anandra_. He carried Fel to his own room instead and set her on the bed, careless of the muck on her clothes and shoes. Stanton followed, setting the kitten gently on the bed beside her.

"All right?" Cullen asked. Fel nodded. "Thank you," she said, and then to Stanton. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome," Stanton said politely, the first words he'd spoken since Cullen had emerged from the barn.

If the boy had been older, Cullen would have sent him to have a drink or three. If he'd been one of Cullen's own soldiers, he would have cursed and chivvied him into action, given him a task, something, _anything_ , to keep him moving and shake him from his shock.

At the thought, Cullen picked up the jug from the washstand. "I've to attend on the Arl," he said, "Uninvited. I can't make a poor impression on behalf of the Inquisition. I've no squire, lad, so you'll have to stand to the duty. Go and fill this, and hurry."

"Yes, ser," Stanton said, and went.

Mia had followed them upstairs, and watched Stanton clattering down the staircase. "Are you sure he's all right?" she whispered to Cullen. "He’s very pale."

"Had a bad scare," Cullen said, equally quietly. "He'll be fine."

Stanton was not much of a squire, indeed more hindrance than help, but he did as he was told, concentrating hard, and by the time Cullen was washed and tidied and in a clean shirt and his armour, colour had come back to the boy's face.

"Should I attend you to the castle, ser?" Stanton asked.

"Usually," Cullen said. "But I'm taking Grim and Krem, and Dorian and the Bull aren't back. I need you to stay and take care of your mother, and Fel, for me."

“Of course,” Stanton said.

Cullen cupped the back of his neck and drew the boy a little aside from the women. “Skinner, Rocky and Dalish will be here — and Stitches, he’s more than a surgeon when it’s needed. I doubt anything will happen, but if it does, listen to them, and get Fel to safety. Can I rely on you?”

“Yes, ser!” Stanton said earnestly.

“Good lad.” Cullen let him go, settled the hang of his cloak, and glanced at Mia. “Walk with me part of the way,” he suggested.

Krem and Grim were waiting by the door. Neither of them would ever be mistaken for anything but mercenaries, but for the moment, they were clean, tidy, and very polite mercenaries. They trailed behind as Cullen drew Mia’s hand through his arm and walked a little distance across the courtyard.

“How is Mistress Anandra?” he asked.

“The midwife isn’t sure. It’s not her time yet, but the exertion — and the fear — haven’t done her or the child any good. I doubt it’s been an easy pregnancy — she’s not young, and her ankles are more swollen than they should be.”

“But she’s —” Cullen started to say, startled, then bit the rest of the sentence back. _Surely not much older than I am._

_Or Kill._

“There’s more,” Mia said. “There have been no pregnancies since her daughter was born. And since the current evidence suggests no obstacle on _her_ part … the question asks itself, who is _Fel’s_ father? I suspect Anandra’s husband wonders that, as well.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen said. “They can neither of them go back to his house, that’s clear. Perhaps some of the Chargers can escort them back to Skyhold — the father of the child can be made to take responsibility.” He paused, thinking of the Arbor Wilds. “If he lives.”

“I doubt she’ll be well enough to travel for quite some time,” Mia said. “Probably not until the babe is born.”

They reached the well, and Cullen stopped. “What was she thinking, coming back here when he sent for her? She must have known … ”

Mia shrugged. “It’s not always so easy to know, in the first months. Especially if a woman doesn’t _want_ to know. And they were not from Redcliffe, didn’t you know? She told me they had a home in the hills south of somewhere called the Crossroads, a small hamlet with neighbours who were good friends. A woman in this kind of trouble might hope such neighbours would help her, talk her husband around. But their home burned, their neighbours are gone or dead, and Rennett has work here, with the militia, where he’s known and liked and she’s a stranger.” She paused, turning to face him. “Your turn. What happened up there? I take it the bruise on Fel’s face is her father’s work.”

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Stanton stopped him doing worse. And I —” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, realised he was doing it, and stopped. “Settled the matter.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “Stanton wasn’t hurt. He’s a brave lad, to face up to an angry man twice his size.”

“Yet another Rutherford hero,” Mia said, and blinked hard.

“He was politely explaining to Rennett that he ought not to do anything he’d regret later,” Cullen said, and Mia gave a breath of a laugh. “Go back to him, Mia. Tell him you’re proud of him.”

“Ah, he’s too old to want to hear that from _me_ ,” Mia said.

Cullen remembered, sharp and sweet, a soft voice singing a song to which he no longer knew the words; the smell of baking bread and a woman laughing even as she scolded him for stealing one of the hot, fresh rolls cooling on the counter. His eyes stung. “No man is ever too old to want to hear that his mother is proud of him.”

Surprising him, Mia put her arms around him and drew him close for a brief, hard embrace, then stepped back. “Go do your heroing, brother,” she said. “Keep making us all proud.”


	32. In The Arl's Castle - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen seeks a solution

_4th Kingsway_

* * *

 

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath,” the herald announced. “Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition, former Knight Captain of Kirkwall. And Lieutenant Krem and … _Grim_ , of the Company, Bull’s Chargers.”

Cullen walked forward to the appropriate distance from Arl Teagan’s great chair, Grim and Krem flanking him, and stopped. He bowed — not, perhaps, as much as Josephine Montilyet would have advised, but as much as he could bring himself to. “Arl Teagan.”

Teagan beckoned. “Come closer, man. Or we’ll both be hoarse with shouting.”

Cullen did as he was bid, Krem and Grim holding their position. It brought him closer to the Arl than most would have considered safe, for a relative stranger — if they hadn’t seen the archers in the gallery.

At first glance, Teagan was younger than Cullen would have expected, for a man who’d held the Arlship since the Blight. On closer view, however, the lines around the Arl’s eyes ran deep, and for all the man’s appearance of good humour, there were shadows in his eyes not unlike those Cullen had seen in his mirror, once upon a time. _No wonder, given the man endured what is said to have happened here in Redcliffe, during the Blight._

Cullen cleared his throat. “Thank you for your time, my lord.”

“We all know what we owe the Inquisition, Ser Cullen,” Teagan said. “I understand you’ve been in Redcliffe for some days — the hospitality of the Castle is yours, should you chose to avail yourself of it.”

“My lord, my travel has not been of an official nature,” Cullen said.

“So I have heard,” Teagan said a little dryly, a hint of warning in his tone, and Cullen realised that Teagan was not one of those lords who held themselves above and isolated from those they ruled. In fact, looking at the old eyes set in that superficially youthful face, Cullen suspected that Arl Teagan knew as much or more about the lives of his people than they did themselves.

“I have come to ask your protection for two of your people, my lord,” Cullen said. “A woman, Anandra, and her daughter, Felandaris.”

“ _All_ my people have my protection, Ser Cullen,” Arl Teagan said.

Cullen bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord. I have come to make you aware of circumstances that you may consider requires particular action, in regard to Anandra and Fel — Felandaris.” _This is utterly absurd,_ he thought. _In a reasonable world, I’d simply tell him Rennett’s a danger to them, and he’d act._

But the world of the nobility was rarely reasonable.

“I’m aware of certain circumstances regarding Rennett’s wife, myself,” Teagan said, studying Cullen. “I understand you know them both, from the time they spent in refuge, at Skyhold.”

Cullen bit back the sharp retort the insult deserved — not only that he was the sort of man who would embark on a liaison with another man’s wife, but also that he would fail to accept any subsequent responsibilities. “The girl became something of a mascot to some of the soldiers,” Cullen said. “I may have spoken to her mother in that context, although I don’t recall it. Certainly I had _no other_ acquaintance with her.”

Teagan steepled his hands. “But you’re aware of the rumours in the village?”

Cullen nodded. “I am, my lord. They are untrue.”

“Then you are here because …?”

“My lord, I have become aware that Recruit Rennett — that is, I don’t believe either Mistress Anandra or her daughter can safely remain in their home. Recruit Rennett has …” Cullen chose his words carefully. “ _Injured_ Felandaris.”

Teagan sat forward a little. “How?”

“He struck her across the face,” Cullen said, and Arl Teagan sat back again. _Of course. What child has not earned a slap or two in their life?_ He hurried on. “When I came upon him, the girl was cowering from him. My nephew, Stanton, a boy of twelve years, was between them, and Recruit Rennett attempted to hit the boy. With a closed fist.”

Arl Teagan’s gaze sharpened. A birching, that was one thing, and a slap or a backhander to an insolent child, well, no one would condone it but it happened. But to strike a child with a closed fist — that was when a man’s neighbours would see no choice but to intervene. “Was your nephew hurt?” he asked.

“He has some ambitions to a military life, and some practice at it, and slipped the blow” Cullen said, making it clear that Stanton’s escape had been not for lack of malice on Rennett’s part. “I did not give Recruit Rennett the opportunity to strike him again. I do not know what he intended to do to Fel … to Felandaris, but I am sure he was beyond controlling himself.” For good measure, he added, “She is a slightly built child.”

“Was she badly hurt?” Teagan asked.

“My lord, I am told she will recover.”

“Well, then,” Teagan said. “I will speak to Recruit Rennett about his behaviour.”

It was a dismissal.

“Yes, my lord,” Cullen said, not moving. “And Mistress Anandra and her daughter?”

Teagan flicked his fingers. “And them as well, if you think it necessary.”

“ _Speak_ to them?” Cullen said, without thinking, then caught himself. “I mean — _my lord_ — what will you do to protect them?”

Teagan frowned at his tone. “Ser Cullen, I have no ill report of Recruit Rennett other than yours.”

“You have mine,” Cullen said sharply. “The Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces. That’s a word which carries weight, in some quarters.”

“Have a care, Ser Cullen,” Arl Teagan said.

Cullen found his fists clenched, as if he were trying to keep hold of his temper bodily as well as in mentally. “Fel is not safe. I doubt her mother is, either. I would offer them both the protection of the Inquisition, and Skyhold, but I am told Mistress Anandra is unlikely to be able to travel until her child is born, and an Inquisition camp is no place for a woman in her condition.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Teagan asked. “Imprison Rennett, because the Inquisition asks?”

_That_ was dangerous ground — Cullen didn’t need Lady Montilyet to tell him so. When the self-evident threat of the Breach and the Elder One and the rifts spawning around the countryside had been vanquished, the Inquisition had found itself in uncertain territory — a massive military machine backed by tremendous political power and goodwill, but without an evident purpose. All around Thedas, wary eyes among the powerful watched and waited to see what Lady Trevelyan would do with the forces at her command. _As long as she does nothing, they will continue to wait._ But let the Inquisition begin to use its power …

“The Inquisition asks nothing,” Cullen said. “ _I_ ask. Mistress Anandra and her daughter survived the fall of Haven. They endured the many long months when the Inquisition’s cause seemed hopeless. They did what they could, little though it may have been, to aid the efforts against Corypheus. They deserve _better_ than to live in a house where their safety is assured only as much as one man fears your disapproval.”

Teagan studied him a moment, and then nodded. He beckoned to one of his advisers, and the woman came forward. “Find some suitable work for Mistress Anandra in the castle,” he said. “And lodging for her here.”

Cullen inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

“And as for the girl …”

Cullen had a sudden, vivid vision of Fel, confined within these ornately decorated walls, trying and inevitably failing to abide by the expectations of appropriate behaviour for the servant classes in the Arl’s halls. “My lord, I will take Fel as my squire.” At Teagan’s raised eyebrow, he hastened to add, “With your permission.”

“Isn’t she a little young?” Teagan asked.

“Perhaps,” Cullen said. “But she is a quick study. And … it may suit her better than lessons, and sewing.”

For the first time, Teagan smiled whole-heartedly. “A young woman after my own heart,” he said. “Take her, then. Tell her mother that she has a place here when she is able to come and take it up — and that Recruit Rennett has no reason to ever find himself within these walls.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Cullen said, although it almost choked him. _Thank you for doing, as a favour to the Inquisition you will no doubt expect some future consideration for, your duty to the people under your care._

Before he could be tempted to say any of that aloud, he bowed again, and took his leave.

Grim and Krem walked beside him on the way back to the Gull and Lantern. As they passed the monument to the Hero of Ferelden, Krem cleared his throat. “Not my place,” he said, “but you got out of that as well as the Chief could have.”

Cullen snorted. “I doubt that.”

Krem shrugged. “Got what you wanted, didn’t make any promises,” he said. “Good enough. And you didn’t hit anyone. Haven’t always been able to say that about the Chief.” At Cullen’s disbelieving look, Krem shrugged again. “He plays that big dumb Qunari thing when it suits him.” He paused. “Probably not with the archers, though.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Cullen said, and even Grim cracked the shadow of a smile. “Keep an eye on Stanton, will you? He’s … not used to …”

Krem nodded as they reached the porch of the inn. “The Chargers will take care of him, Commander. Don’t worry.”

The sobbing from Mia’s room had ceased. Cullen rapped gently on the door of his own room, and at Mia’s soft invitation, opened it quietly.

Both children, and Ser Calenhad, were curled up asleep on the bed in a huddle of limbs and fur. Mia had drawn the room’s one chair over to the fire, a puddle of fabric in her lap and the needle between her fingers telling of patient mending.

“How is Mistress Anandra?” Cullen asked.

“Resting,” Mia said. She wove the needle through a seam and set the cloth aside. “Doing a little better, the midwife said.”

“Arl Teagan will give her a place at the castle,” Cullen said. “Until she is well enough to travel to Skyhold.”

“And Fel?”

“My _squire_ ,” Cullen said wryly. “I doubt she’d … _thrive_ at the castle. And her father would have some claim on her.”

Mia glanced at the girl asleep on the bed. “Is she old enough?”

“No,” Cullen said frankly. “But I’m well used to seeing to my own gear, and at least …”

“You can protect her,” Mia said, and Cullen nodded. “And be sure she won’t run off looking for you again.”

“That too,” Cullen said wryly. He crossed the room to warm his hands by the fire. “I had no idea that things were … as they are, here. Her letters … she complained at being here, but I thought it was just … the change, missing Skyhold.”

“She told me her father had never struck her before,” Mia said, “if that’s any comfort.”

“It is,” Cullen said. “Thank you.” He paused. “Did Anandra tell you who the father of her child is?”

“No,” Mia said. “In time, perhaps …”

Cullen shook his head. “I think it’s best we travel on, as soon as she’s settled at the castle. I’ve no wish for another encounter with Rennett, and we’ve delayed our own journey long enough.”

“And your own return to Skyhold,” Mia suggested.

“Yes,” Cullen admitted. “But not until I’ve seen you safely home — and seen Gareth and Cait, and met the rest of my nieces and nephews.”

Mia picked up her mending again, but didn’t start it. She gazed into the fire for a moment. “For a while, Cullen, it was as if you’d forgotten any of us existed.”

Cullen winced. “I know I am not the best letter writer —” he started.

Mia shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. When you _did_ write … sometimes it felt almost like letters from a stranger.”

Cullen remembered those letters all too well: drafted in haste, on those days when he had both the energy to pick up a quill in the evening, and few enough doubts about Meredith and the Gallows to find words that would not betray the Templars and alarm his sister.

Drafted on days when his veins were filled with cool blue strength and certainty, and hours at the chessboard with Gareth and Mia seemed very far away.

“They were difficult times,” he said.

“But things are better for you now?” she asked, and the note of wistful uncertainty in her voice squeezed his heart a little.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” he said honestly. “Yes, they are.”


	33. On The Page - Stanton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia tries to talk to her son.

_7th Kingsway_

* * *

 

_Dear Father, Louella, Wilton, Suesette, Adana and my uncles and aunts,_

_Mother and I are well and safe. Uncle Cullen is also well and safe._

_We have had an Interesting journey home so far. Uncle Cullen assisted a young woman of his acquaintance to return to her Home in Redcliffe. She had Most Resourcefully managed to travel quite some Distance from her Home due to a Misunderstanding with her parents. We stayed quite some days in Redcliffe and Uncle Cullen managed to resolve these Difficulties._

Stanton paused, pen suspended above the parchment. That terrifying moment when Fel’s father had flung open the barn door where he and Fel had run to hide, Rennett’s face purple with rage … the pounding of his heart as he had pushed Fel behind him and faced up to the man … _Run if you can, Fel_ , his voice treacherously cracking in the middle of the sentence, not from fear but from his damned hormones. And then his uncle in the doorway, face a cold mask, the first time Stanton had understood to his bones what it meant to be a soldier — the relief he’d felt at rescue and, at the same time, the chill of seeing exactly where his own ambitions might lead.

He wanted to tell his father all of it, to hear his father’s advice — but a letter that would be shared around the entire family was not the place.

Instead, he moistened the ink block again, wiped the quill over it. _The outcome has been that this Young Woman, named Felandaris, has become Uncle Cullen’s squire, and travels with us. She is Courageous and Intelligent and will serve Uncle Cullen well, I think._

No need to set down his own pang of disappointment at being so soon displaced. Uncle Cullen had explained it, their first night on the road, as he and Stanton checked the horses and walked the edges of the camp: the formal agreement of squireship could be entered into between Uncle Cullen and Fel’s lord, in this case Arl Teagan. Fel’s father couldn’t challenge it, as he might a more informal arrangement or other contract. _Don’t worry, lad,_ Uncle Cullen had said. _I’ll find a place for you when the time comes._ Still, it seemed unfair that _the time had come_ for Fel when she was so much younger than he was, and he had to wait however many more months or years for his mother’s permission.

He sighed. _Mother and I miss you all and look forward to seeing you soon —_

He paused again. “Mother? Would you like to add anything before I close?”

His mother raised her head with a start, and Stanton realised she had been dozing by the fire. “You’re writing home?”

“Yes,” Stanton said. “There’s room at the bottom, if you’d like to say something.”

“I wrote yesterday,” his mother said. “Just tell them I love them all, and will see them soon.”

Stanton nodded, and bent his attention to scribing the words.

He finished the letter, sanded it carefully, and folded it. “Will you ask Uncle Cullen to seal and send it tomorrow?”

“Of course,” his mother said. She took the parchment and tucked it away without looking at it. “Are you looking forward to being home?”

It was too complicated a question for a simple answer. “I miss everyone,” Stanton said. “But I’ll miss Uncle Cullen, and the Chargers and everyone, when we get there.”

“You’d have to be away for far longer, if you went to be a squire,” Mia said. “Years.”

“I know,” Stanton said.

“Your uncle … he left when he was a year older than you. This the first time any of us have seen him since then.”

“I know,” Stanton said. _Your Uncle Cullen, who went away to be a Templar_ had been a constant of his entire life. Every few weeks his mother would sit at the kitchen table with ink and quill and parchment and set down the events of the household. His earliest memories included the scratch of the quill, his mother’s voice asking _Is there anything you’d like me to tell your Uncle Cullen?_ And the occasional letters back, which his mother would read over and over before locking them in a box in her dresser, the unfamiliar, elegant script the only proof that Uncle Cullen was a real man and not his mother’s imagination.

 _You look so much like your Uncle Cullen at that age_ , she’d begun saying a few years ago, and Stanton had studied his face in the surface of the rain barrel, trying to see what he’d look like in ten, in fifteen years time, what his uncle would look like now.

 _Like Uncle Gareth,_ he’d thought, _at least a little,_ and indeed Cullen did look like Gareth — a little. _Only taller, and bigger, and more handsome_ — and with an entire army to follow his orders, and the most important people in all Thedas as his friends.

“I won’t be like Uncle Cullen, mother,” Stanton said. “ _I’ll_ write.”

Mia smiled. “I know. You’re a good boy, Stanton.” Stanton felt his ears heat. “Just … it’s a hard life, and not just for you. I know you’re brave, and you want to be a hero, like your uncle. But there are other kinds of heroes. When the river rises, and your father goes out to make sure the lambs are all on high ground … he’s not less brave than Uncle Cullen.”

Not for the first time, Stanton half-wished he was still young enough to roll his eyes and say _Mo-other_ as his younger siblings still did. But he was almost a man, and so he only nodded, and said seriously, “I know.”

It was not entirely the truth. Stanton _knew_ the dangers and the hardships of the farm. He was old enough, now, to go out with his father on lambing nights, in the deep dark of the spring nights, when _anything_ could be lurking beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern. Like all of them, he’d heard the wolves howling in the hungry nights of Wintermarch, seen his father take a club and torch and go out with the other men to keep them away from the sheep.

That was brave, yes, but as brave as Uncle Cullen? His uncle had been frightening, as he charged at Rennett, but also heroic, and when Stanton had crept back to the door to watch the fight, Cullen’s clinical, professional brutality had been both chilling and, he had to admit to himself, exciting. He could imagine himself in his uncle’s place, standing between an innocent girl and a bully, meting out punishment that would not soon be forgotten.

And Ser Dorian, so casually wielding the power that had saved Rennett’s life, and could as easily have ended it, with a smile and a quip and his perpetual swagger. _I wonder when **I’ll** be able to grow a moustache that’s more than fuzz …_

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and his uncle’s voice said quietly, “Mia?”

“Come in,” his mother said, and Cullen did so, closed the door behind him.

He had a roll of parchment in his hand. “Mia, would you object to Dorian and the Chargers taking you on to South Reach without me? And caring for Fel, until I can return?”

“What’s happened?” Mia asked immediately.

“Nothing bad,” Cullen reassured her. “It’s just — I’ve had word Killeen is on her way to Kirkwall. I can reach Gwaren from here quite quickly, and take ship to Kirkwall there.”

“And South Reach will be a detour,” Mia said.

“Yes. Given the state of the roads.” Cullen paused. “I know I promised to see you safely home but … Kirkwall is a place of some considerable complications, these days.”

“And where you met,” Mia said.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve no fond memories of the place. Personally, I’d prefer to never see it again. I am, however, concerned for her safety.”

“If it’s that dangerous, you shouldn’t go alone,” Mia said.

“I won’t be alone,” Cullen said. “I’ll be with Kill.”

“Just the two of you?” Mia said. “Is that safe, Cullen?”

“It’s not as dangerous as that,” Cullen said quickly. “It’s not South Reach, granted, but most of the city is safe enough. It’s just …” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Kill takes damnable risks, at times.”

“Can I come?” Stanton asked, surprising everyone, including himself. As his mother and uncle turned to look at him, he felt his cheeks heat. “I mean, I always wanted to see Kirkwall, when you were there. I’d like to see it now.”

“There’s not a great deal to see,” his uncle said. “It’s no Val Royeaux, or Antiva City, or Minrathous.”

“It’s not South Reach, either,” Stanton pointed out, and Cullen’s mouth lifted a little at one corner. “Please. I’ve never seen _anywhere_.”

“If your mother thinks …” Cullen said, turning to Mia, and Stanton’s heart sank. _She’ll never agree. There’s no chance I’ll ever get to go anywhere interesting!_

“I think it’s a good idea,” Mia said, utterly surprising Stanton and, from the look on his face, Cullen as well. “Actually, I think it’s a good idea if we _all_ go. You’ll have the soldiers with you, that way. Stanton will get to visit Kirkwall. And _I’ll_ get to meet your Killeen.”

“Mother!” Stanton leapt to his feet. Halfway across the room he remembered his dignity.

He hugged her anyway.


	34. On The Page - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen tries to write a letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, the flashbacks are out of order. If anyone is confused, I ’m happy to clarify.

_10th -  24th Kingsway_

* * *

 

 

_Killeen,_

_I am on my way to Kirkwall. Please do not do anything dangerous until I arrive._

 

Cullen sighed, reading over the sentence. _No_. That would not do. He could all but _see_ Kill’s expression as she read it, and it was thunderous.

 

He folded the parchment, tore off the strip containing the beginning of his letter, and tried again.

 

 _Killeen_ —

 

Should it be _Dear Killeen_? Perhaps _My darling Killeen_?

 

He stammered and stumbled over the words when she was there in front of him, let alone trying to put them down in ink on the page. Sometimes, in the silences of the night, Kill would whisper endearments to him, _my darling man, my beautiful fool, my love_ _…_ His heart swelled to bursting to hear it, her low, even voice telling him he was _my darling, my heart, my own_ …

 

As much as Cullen longed to reply in kind, to make her feel the same singing happiness, he could never find the words. He found it easy to say _I love you_ , easy to say _you_ _’re so beautiful_ , but beyond that, his words tangled on each other.

 

 _Write to you what you_ _’d say to her_ , Mia had said.

 

He folded the parchment again, tore another strip from it.

 

_Kill,_

_I am on my way to Kirkwall. Be strategic until I get there, please. I am well, and take comfort in Sister Nightingale_ _’s assurance that you are, as well. I am comforted, too, to know I will see you again soon. I miss you greatly._

_Fel is with me. I have taken her as my_ _‘squire’ for reasons to complicated to explain here. She also wishes you well, and looks forward to seeing you, and desires you to count your change carefully._

_I love you._

_PS: I have learned a new joke, about three men drinking in a tavern, when the father of one of them comes in. It is quite funny when you realise he is talking about his wife. I look forward to telling it to you._

 

He folded and sealed the letter. With luck, it would reach Kill before he did, bridging the distance between them in however illusory a fashion. Her fingers would touch the wax beneath his fingers now, would unfold the parchment and trace the lines he’d written …

 

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his chair and resolutely turned his thoughts from Killeen’s fingers and what they might touch. Maker, his sister and his nephew were in the next room, and Fel would be back once she had finished consulting Stitches about Ser Calenhad. He had tried to persuade her to share a room with Stanton and Mia, but — and from what old story or ballad she had got the idea, Cullen could not imagine — Fel was convinced that a squire should sleep across the doorway of her knight’s room.

 

As a result, he had a frustrating lack of privacy — which he suspected he would find considerably more frustrating when they reached Kirkwall.

 

And at the thought, the door opened to reveal Fel and Ser Calenhad. She carried the kitten carefully to the fireplace and set him down.

 

“How is he?” Cullen asked.

 

“Better,” Fel said. “Two of his cuts aren’t puffy at all, now.” She crossed to where he’d set his armour with the slight duck-waddle she’d adopted to keep from putting weight on her broken toe, and began to check it over. Cullen noted that she paid special attention to the lacings and joints — the points of greatest weakness, where wear and damage would show first.

 

“Did Kill show you how to do that?” he asked, and Fel nodded. “That’s good, cubling, but you don’t need to worry about it — I see to my own gear.”

 

“I _do_ have to, ser,” Fel said, not turning her attention from carefully checking the joints of his rerebraces. “I’m your squire, and it’s my job.”

 

“It _will_ be your job,” Cullen said, “when you’re a little older.”

 

She turned to look at him, jaw set stubbornly. “I’m old enough! I can do it! I can!”

 

“I know you can. Cubling, come here.” Cullen held out his hand, and when she limped over to his chair, he picked her up and set her on his knee. “Most squires are a few years older than you, you know. They spend time as a page in their lord’s house, first, and learn many important things. But I didn’t think you’d much like being Arl Teagan’s page — and I’m no lord of a great house or castle, to need one.”

 

“You’re better than any stinking old lord!” Fel said loyally, and Cullen laughed.

 

“They don’t think so. But even though you’re my squire, you still need to learn all the things a page would, before you can learn to be a squire.”

 

She turned to look at him. “I could learn them both at once!”

 

“That would be …”  Cullen remembered the hours Fel had spent trailing after Killeen during Skyhold’s repairs. “Like trying to build a wall from the top and the bottom at the same time.”

 

“But if I’m not your proper squire …” Fel said doubtfully.

 

“You _are_ my proper squire,” Cullen said quickly. “Witnessed and agreed to by Arl Teagan. No one can make you leave, or make me send you away. And I _won_ _’t_ send you away — unless you want me to.”

 

 “I don’t want you to send me away,” Fel said very quietly.

 

“Then I won’t,” Cullen said, and Fel threw her arms around his neck. He held her tightly, feeling her shake with suppressed tears. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come for you, cubling. If I’d know how things really were, I would have come much sooner — or sent for you.”

 

“You didn’t even write!” she said against his shoulder.

 

Cullen winced. “I’m sorry. Mia tells me I am very bad at letters.”

 

“Horrible,” Fel agreed.

 

“Then that’s your first job, as my squire,” Cullen said. “Make sure I always have ink, and parchment, and quills — and remind me to use them.”

 

“I can do that,” Fel said.

 

“I’m sure you can,” Cullen said. “Now — time for you and Ser Calenhad to get some sleep.”

 

Fel hesitated, arms still tight round his neck. “Ser Bear?”

 

“Yes, cubling?”

 

“Will you tell me a story?”

 

Cullen had to blink hard and clear his throat before he could speak. Once Fel and her mother had been settled in the lower courtyard at Skyhold, the story of Ser Felandaris and her adventures had fallen by the wayside. Now, though, those cold evenings by the fire on their long march from Haven were suddenly as clear as yesterday: the chill of the mountain air on the back of his neck, the heat of the fire on his face; Fel’s fingers knotted in the fur of his collar and her mother huddled in exhausted sleep nearby; and Kill, arms locked around her legs and knees on her chin, gazing into the dancing flames, turning to look at him with the strain and exhaustion of their situation clear in the lines of her face, but with her mouth curving in her lopsided smile and peace in her grey eyes …

 

Fel was heavier in his arms now than she had been, then, still thin and wiry but taller — _older_.

 

 _Not yet too old for stories_ , he thought, and was grateful. “You’ll have to remind me where we were up to,” he said to her —  and was not in the least surprised when she was able to tell him in minute detail. 

 

As they travelled on towards Gwaren, staying in roadside inns where they were available, camping where they were not, their strange little company settled into a routine. It became Stanton’s task to see to their breakfast and help prepare their evening meal, when necessary, something the boy did with no complaint and increasing skill. Fel’s responsibility was to monitor their stock of supplies, so they could replenish them as chance provided the opportunity, and Cullen was utterly unsurprised that she did so with meticulous attention. As they rode, he and Mia took it in turns to school both children as well as they could — Mia proving herself adept at finding mathematical problems that would keep even Fel’s interest, Cullen finding in the landmarks they passed opportunities to recount the history of Ferelden.  At noon, they would pause, and the Chargers would take the opportunity to keep their skills in practice, Dorian and Cole occasionally joining them, and after a week or so the Iron Bull asked Mia’s permission to include Stanton in their training — which she reluctantly gave. Then, invariably sporting a few new bruises, they would ride on until close to nightfall, and seek shelter for the night.

 

And Fel would lean against Cullen’s shoulder, Ser Calenhad in her lap. _Tell me a story, Ser Bear._

 

 _It is its own little world_ , Cullen thought one night, lying sleepless in his bedroll with the stars spread in a blazing blanket above him. For the first time he could understand why some chose a life of wandering the roads. As eager as he was to see Killeen again, there was a part of him reluctant for their journey to end. He would be sorry to  no longer look ahead each day to new sights, sorry to spend his days beneath a roof rather than the sweeping arch of the ever-changing sky, sorry to once more have to fit moments with those he cared about in between paperwork and orders and drill.

 

_Perhaps we will reach Gwaren to find Kill is **there** , already returning from Kirkwall._

 

That would be perfect. They could travel to South Reach, visit his other siblings, all of them together, and then he and Kill, Fel and Dorian and the Chargers could make their way back to Skyhold at a leisurely pace — perhaps with a detour through Honnleath, where there was a certain lake with a certain dock he would like to show Killeen …

 

 _And I will not have to go to Kirkwall at all_.

 

He sighed, honesty forcing him to admit that was no small part of his regret at the impending end of their travels. _No fond memories of the place_ , he’d told Mia.

 

_And many bad ones._

 

The Gallows, his own creeping unease that something was, somehow, not entirely right — unease dulled with lyrium, and then more lyrium — the Quartermaster raising the dose for Meredith’s favourite, and Cullen himself not questioning it when the woman said _the Knight-Commander recommends_.

 

_Not feeling the leash draw tighter, and tighter still._

And then the night demons and abominations had stalked the streets, hours and hours of the foul stink of them, the nauseating sound of their delight when they found fresh prey — smells and sounds that clung to him even when the streets were cleared, shapes dancing at the edge of his vision, the sudden certainty that one of them was _right there_ , in his blind spot, ready to pounce, ready to —

 

_Do you like this? How about this?_

For the first time, he had gone to the Quartermaster and _asked_.

 

And she had not said no.

 

And it had helped, as it had helped when they had raised his dose after Kinloch — raised it to a third of what he was taking by that night in Kirkwall. The nightmares became less vivid. _Everything_ became less vivid, including the fear dancing at the ends of his nerves, including —

 

 _Including the memory of Killeen Hanmount, face a mask of blood._ Cullen, I think it took my eye.

_Until the day he realises he has taken a fortnight to thank Killeen Hanmount for saving his life, and that he doesn_ _’t even feel particularly ashamed of that fact._

_Lyrium, they told the Templars in training, will make you **more**._

_It was only later that they all learned it also made them **less**._

_He cuts his dose back to where it had been, even a little less. The nightmares return to full hideous detail, the crawling sensation at the back of his neck that has him spinning round, hand on his sword, in an empty room, the disproportionate rage at mistakes from his subordinates that has his heart and head pounding._

_But he remembers to enquire after Killeen every time he is near the Keep, and sometimes when he is not, and when Templar business takes him past Hugh Gothering_ _’s shop in Half Moon Street it occurs to him to buy the finest vintage he can afford and have it sent to her with a note._ It would be traditional for me to buy you a drink — I hope this is an acceptable substitute.

 

_And when he sees her, about her own duties, as imperturbable as if she had not come inches from maiming, blinding — or worse — when he sees her, she meets his gaze, and smiles, lopsided now._

_He will take the nightmares, if they are the price of having made the woman who saved his life smile._

Cullen stared up at the stars. That had not even been the worst of it.

 

Not for him.

 

Not for her.

 


	35. Behind The Green Door - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen kills time

_15th - 16th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

Killeen had told Aveline _two days_ and so _two days_ was what she’d give the Guard Captain — but that left her without a purpose of her own to fill her time.

 

_And Kirkwall is hardly a delightful vacation destination._

 

She made a complete inventory of her arms and armour, looking for something to mend and cleaning every piece until it gleamed, managing to make it last a morning. She walked two complete circuits of the town at a fast clip, jogging up each stairway, returned to her room at the _Hanged Man_ and did push-ups until her arms trembled. She wrote to Cullen, managing to fill a page without mentioning a name or saying anything that could not be sent under open cover, and set the letter aside to send the next day.

 

That made it almost late enough to reasonably eat her evening meal, after which she could retire to her bed and completely fail to sleep.

 

However, when she went downstairs the warmth of the _Hanged Man_ _’s_ common room, with its smell of unwashed customers and spilt beer, sent a wave of nausea sweeping over her, and she hurried to the door, stumbling out into the street with her skin prickling with cold sweat and her head spinning.

 

The cool air revived her. She stood leaning against the wall for a while, looking up at the stars and wondering if Cullen was looking up also, right at that moment, looking at the same stars — _there is the Wolf, the Tree_ _…_ without meaning to, she drew the lines that made the Dragon, looming above her —

 

 _Red. Heat. Pain_.

 

Heard herself cry out, realised she was cowering down against the wall, arms flung over her face. A customer on his way into the _Hanged Man_ paused, looking at her curiously.

 

Killeen gave him her best level stare, and he looked away hastily, went about his business.

 

She pushed herself to her feet, breathing deeply. _All right. It happens. You_ _’ve_ ** _seen_** _it happen to others._

She’d seen it happen to _Cullen_ , for that matter, back when —

 

 _She_ _’s looking for Cullen and she has no clear plan on what she’ll do when she finds him: only that she’s saved his life, and he’s saved hers, and she nearly kissed him in Dyer’s Lane and he let her sleep in his quarters to avoid another well-deserved disciplinary chit._

_He_ _’s in his office, back to the door, studying papers in his hands._

_“Cullen,” she says. When he doesn’t turn, she raps lightly on the open door._

_He spins instantly, hand dropping to his sword, face showing no recognition. The blade has part-cleared the scabbard before he blinks, and straightens from a fighter_ _’s half-crouch. His hand shakes as he rams the blade back home and runs his fingers through his hair. Sweat glistens at his hairline, on his upper lip. “Sergeant. You startled me.”_

_Killeen steps all the way into the room, and shuts the door behind her. Cullen_ _’s eyes show a flicker of alarm, quickly hidden, and he takes a step back. “Happens a lot lately, I’d guess.”_

_He shrugs slightly._ _“Abominations in the street. Some of our own recruits possessed. A little caution isn’t undue.”_

_“There’s a little caution and there’s being ready to behead a friend for knocking on your door.”_

_“I was not —” Cullen snaps, turns away from her. “Can I help you, Sergeant? Or is this a social call? As you can see, I’m quite busy.”_

_“How have you been sleeping?” Killeen asks, although the answer was clear enough in his pallor, the circles beneath his eyes._ Badly _._

_“Adequately. Thank you for your concern.” He picks up a scroll from his desk and studies it._

_“And —”_

_“Enough!” he snarls, flinging the scroll against the wall and wheeling to face her. “What do you want from me?”_

_She_ _’s not sure she’s actually going to say it until the words are out and it’s too late to take them back. “I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come for a drink, actually.”_

_“I haven’t time,” Cullen says dismissively._

_Killeen folds her arms._ _“If there’s a man in Kirkwall who is in more need of an evening off, I haven’t seen him.” And it’s true — although when she’d walked over here she’d been thinking more of that night in his quarters, that moment when she’d wiped his brow and he had, just a little, turned his face toward her hand — when in the dim light of the brazier she’d been almost certain she’d seen his eyes darken as she leaned a little closer — but right now, with him stretched tight as a bow-string in front of her, all she’s thinking is_ get him out of this room, away from these maps and papers and decisions, get him into the fresh air and get a couple of drinks into him.

_“I —”_

_“Cullen, you’re run ragged, and Maker’s balls, I know the look. If you don’t stand down and calm down, at least for a few hours, you’re going to start seeing things that aren’t there and then you’ll end up like that girl in Donnic’s squad.”_

_He frowns, slightly._ _“What girl?”_

_“Maryanne, Miriam, something like that. Thought a ten-year-old playing hoop-stick was waving a mage’s staff and hacked his arm off before anyone knew what was happening.” Cullen winces, and Killeen presses her advantage. “Come and have a drink. We’ll talk about things that have nothing to do with the shit we’re both currently up to our necks in.” He still hesitates. “I’m going to stand here telling you nug jokes until you agree, you know.”_

_That got her the faintest twitch of a smile._ _“Maker, anything but that.”_

_“How many nugs —”_

_Cullen held up his hands._ _“All right. When I finish these rosters.”_

_“A nug, a druffalo and a mabari walk into a bar —”_

_“All right!” Cullen says, puts down his paperwork._

_She leads the way to the Green Door Tavern. It_ _’s a little pricier than her budget usually runs to, but for precisely that reason they’re unlikely to run into anyone she knows there. She’s been there before, on duty, to talk to a witness or ask after someone missing, and it struck her then as a nice place, not too crowded, the kind of place you could sit over a drink and talk without shouting your business to the whole inn over the noise of the crowd._

_It_ _’s still a nice place, still quiet, and she choses a table for them with a view of the darkening sky out the window, orders beer for them both._

_Cullen holds his as if he_ _’s not entirely sure what to do with it, so Killeen demonstrates with her own, and he sips, cautiously._

_“So,” she says casually. “You know, I don’t know anything about you. Except you’re a Templar, and from Ferelden, and you’re slow on your leftward parry_.” And you scream in your sleep, and you’re drawing your sword against threats only you can see.

 

_“That’s about all there is to know,” Cullen says. “Besides, I know little more about you.”_

_“I,” Killeen says with great dignity, “am not slow on my leftward parry, thank you very much. I’m from Denerim. I have one sister, no brothers, and a mother who can turn a summer cold into the bloody flux.”_

_“What’s her name?” Cullen asks. “Your sister. Older sister?”_

_“Jean. Younger. By quite a bit.”_

_He sips his beer._ _“Gareth, Mia and Cait. All older.”_

_And, as if by magic —_ or by alcohol _, Killeen thinks — they_ _’re_ ** _talking_** _, like people. There_ _’s more beer, and a plate of something crisp and salty. Cullen tells her about playing chess with his sister Mia, asks her if she plays._

_“No,” Killeen says regretfully, and then an idea strikes her and she smiles. “You’ll have to teach me.”_

_“I’d like that,” he says softly, and smiles back, and_ Maker _, she_ _’s almost sure she’s flirting with him and almost sure he’s flirting back and the idea sends a bolt of heat through her that makes her shift a little in her seat._

_They trade war stories, the most unusual arrests Killeen has ever made (hands down, the stark naked elf with the jug wedged over his head), the stupidest things Cullen_ _’s ever heard recruits say._

_More beer, and she finds herself telling him about Denerim during the Blight, the whole family hiding in the cellar as Darkspawn raged through the streets, hearing them in the house upstairs destroying everything her father owned and the loom that was his only livelihood._

_“Did you see the Hero?” Cullen asks._

_Killeen shakes her head._ _“I didn’t see anything except the bolt on the inside of the cellar door. She saved us all, though.”_

_“Yes,” he says, takes a long swallow of his drink, holds up a finger to the bartender for another. “She saved us all. She was always … special.”_

_“Wait, you_ **_knew_ ** _her?_ _” Killeen asks, astounded._

_“I was at Kinloch. She was an apprentice there.” He pauses, picks up his fresh drink. “She returned … later.”_

_“Maker’s_ **_balls_ ** _, Cullen. What was she like?_ _”_

_“Beautiful. Long fair hair, a face like a doll,” he says. “A little slip of a girl, delicate.  Fragile, almost. I could have put my hands around her waist if I —” His face is strangely blank as his voice trails off, and then he blinks, makes an effort at a rueful half grin.  “If I’d ever dared.”_

_And perhaps he doesn_ _’t realise how much he’s betrayed, with those words, with the look on his face, but he has, and Killeen can’t unhear them, can’t cast some magic that will take her back five minutes to turn the conversation in some other, in any other direction, will mean she has never had the image in her head that is there now, a younger Cullen gazing worshipfully at a slender, fair-haired mage, longing to take her in his arms._

_“She sounds … it sounds as if you remember her well,” she says a little numbly._

_“I have little choice,” Cullen says. “After Kinloch …” He drains his cup. “I doubt I’ll ever forget her.”_

_Killeen calls the evening to a close not long after, is surprised when Cullen stumbles against the table when he stands._ _“You need to do this more often,” she says, steadying him. “Build up your endurance.”_

_“It’s discouraged.” He sags a little as the night air hits him, and Killeen hastily hauls his arm over her shoulders. “Bad f’r discipine. Pline.”_

_“Andraste’s tits, you’re a lightweight,” she grumbles, and starts to steer him through the streets in the direction of the Gallows._

_He baulks._ _“Kill.”_

_“Still here.”_

_He leans into her, lowers his voice to a whisper._ _“I dream about her.”_

_And Maker_ _’s balls, it’s not a confession she wants to hear. She tries to urge him onward. “Cullen …”_

_“All the time,” he whispers against her ear. “It won’t stop. She won’t stop.”_

_And he_ _’s weeping, noisy drunken tears for his lost love the Hero of Ferelden, hanging on to Killeen to keep upright, blubbering against her shoulder, and Killeen would almost rather see a maleficar coming down the street than_ **_this_ ** _, but the Maker, fuck his foreskin, doesn_ _’t oblige, and so she pats Cullen’s shoulder and makes soothing noises until he suddenly pulls away from her, staggers two steps and vomits up most of the beer he’s drunk._

_It_ _’s a long, weary way back to the Gallows, and Killeen is ferociously relieved to tumble Cullen into his own bed, where he promptly begins to snore._

_She avoids him for a few days, until a scab has started to form over the small, sharp wound his words made — and when, a week or so later, he suggests a drink, perhaps a meal, when she gets off shift, she shakes her head._

_He takes the hint, is cool and distant when they meet. She_ _’d feel guilty, except his hands are steady again, he’s no longer starting at shadows. He’s fine._

Killeen found herself standing in Half Moon Street, just up from where Hugh Gothering’s shop had stood — across from the Green Door Tavern. She knew now that Cullen had not been, in any way, _fine_ in the weeks and months after that drunken evening.

 

 _It was lyrium._ He must have tried to stop, back then, even back then — she knew his nightmares, now, _Maker_ , she knew them. _It won_ _’t stop. She won’t stop_.

 

And what help had she been to him, when he’d tried to tell her?

 

 _None_.

 

And he’d gone back to taking lyrium, and the nightmares had eased, and the jangled nerves that remembered life-or-death moments were soothed.

 

 _Oh, Cullen._ How different might things have been — for all of them — if she had been able to hear what he had been trying to say?

 

Killeen looked up at the night sky, carefully keeping her gaze from the stars that made up the Dragon. _The Sword, the Maiden, the Horse_ …

 

She swore on all three of them, as if Cullen, under the same stars, could hear her thoughts. _I will listen, next time, for all the next times, my darling, beautiful man._

_I will hear what you tell me, my love, my dear heart, my own._


	36. In Hightown - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aveline uncovers a lead

_17th Kingway_

* * *

 

 

In the end, it was Aveline who came looking for Killeen, on the morning of the second day.

 

Killeen had slept badly, troubled by dreams of Cullen begging her for help, _it won’t stop, Kill, she won’t stop_ , dreams in which she held out her hands to take him in her arms and found herself offering him vials and vials of lyrium …

 

Subsequently she was in no sweet mood when Aveline rapped on her door, but the Guard-Captain’s first words swept the memories of the dreams away. “We’ve got a lead.”

 

Killeen hammered on Fraser’s door as they passed. He opened it, wide-eyed, half-dressed. _Andraste_ _’s tits, I’m not waiting for him to get his boots on._ “Meet me at the Keep,” she ordered, and kept walking.

 

As Killeen followed her down the stairs and out into the street, Aveline explained that the Guard’s enquiries had turned up reports of a devout and wealthy widow opening her private residence in Hightown as a refuge for young women in difficulties.

 

“Maryam de Folette,” Aveline said.

 

“Never heard of her,” Killeen said as they made their way to Hightown, Aveline’s squad around them.

 

“Neither have I,” Aveline said grimly. “Want to bet that’s because she’s exceptionally law abiding?”

 

“No odds,” Killeen said.

 

Maryam de Folette’s house was large and imposing, all the windows that faced the street shuttered. “No back door,” Aveline said, and hammered on the door.

 

It was opened after a moment by a very large man dressed as a butler — _dressed as one_ , Killeen thought, taking in the twice broken nose, the bulging chest, the shoulders that seemed to come straight from his ears, _but if he **is** one I_ _’ll eat my armour._ Her impression was confirmed as soon as he opened his mouth and grunted, “Yeah?”

 

“Guard Captain Aveline here to see Mistress de Folette,” Aveline said.

 

“Not here.” He started to shut the door.

 

Aveline and Killeen moved at the same moment, stepping forward, shoulders to the door. They heaved — he strained — two of Aveline’s soldiers added their weight and the door flew open, the ‘butler’ staggering back.

 

“Mitchell, Simkins, watch the door — no one in or out,” Aveline ordered. “The rest of you, by twos, search the house. Killeen, with me.”

 

“Yes, ser,” they chorused, Killeen included, and _moved_.

 

The foyer and the public spaces of the house were well-kept and well appointed, but beyond them, paint peeled from the walls, dust collected in corners, what furniture there was was cheap and old. Three empty rooms on the first floor, up a flight of stairs and —

 

A woman screamed, and Killeen drew her sword, ran after Aveline down the corridor. They rounded the corner to see —

 

Two of Aveline’s squad trying to calm a red-haired girl cowering away from them and screaming like a whistling kettle. “Hush, hush now,” one of them pleaded. “It’s all right, it’s all right!”

 

Killeen sheathed her sword and strode forward. “Shut up,” she said, and slapped the girl across the face.

 

The noise stopped, the girl staring at her in shock.

 

“They’re Guard,” Killeen said, jerking her thumb at the others. “They ask nicely. I’m not. I don’t. Have you seen Jean Hanmount?”

 

“I don’t — I don’t think so?” the girl quavered.

 

“Dark haired, pretty. Eyes like mine. Might have had a kid with her.”

 

“Oh, you mean _Amaryllis,_ ” the red-head said.

 

One of the Guards snickered and Killeen glared at him, then turned back to the girl. “Probably. Where is she?”

 

“Gone,” the red head said. “Madame de Folette got her a job, with four of the other girls, last week.” She rubbed her cheek. “It’s my turn next. If you’ve _bruised_ me …”

 

“A job where?” Killeen asked. “And where’s Thomas? Her kid. With her?”

 

“I don’t know where,” the girl said. “Madame never says. And no, you can’t take children. Madame finds them good homes, with nice families.”

 

“And where can we find Madame?” Aveline asked.

 

The red-head hesitated. “I’m not sure. She only comes here every few days, to bring new girls, or take the lucky ones to jobs.”

 

“Is there anything you can think —” Aveline began.

 

Killeen glanced behind her, saw the staircase and its banister, seized the redhead by the arm and hoisted her over one shoulder. Ignoring Aveline’s shout of _Killeen!_ she carried the shrieking, struggling girl to the landing at the top of the stairs and tipped her, head down, over the edge.

 

The girl screamed and kicked. “If you keep moving around,” Killeen said conversationally, “I’m going to lose my grip.”

 

“Killeen Hanmount, I _order_ you —” Aveline snapped.

 

“Not a Guard,” Killeen reminded her, and then to the red-head, who was now holding _very_ still, “Now, I’m going to hold you here until you think of something that helps me find this Madame de Fillet. Of course, eventually my arms will get tired, and I’ll drop you. So you’ll probably want to think hard, and help me, before that happens.”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” the girl babbled.

 

“Does she come in a carriage or on foot?”

 

“I, um, I never saw. In a carriage! In a carriage! I heard horses, more than one time, stopping!”

 

“Good,” Killeen said. “Are you from Kirkwall?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Then what does she smell like? Hightown, Lowtown? Darktown?”

 

“None of them! She smells of … I don’t know, something sweet!”

 

 _Perfume and bathing, and a residence outside the city walls_ , Killeen thought. _All of which means not just money, but connections._ “Good. That’s helpful. What does she look like?”

 

“Orelsian!”

 

“Well, shit,” Killeen said. “You mean she wears a mask?”

 

“Yes! Pull me up, pull me up!”

 

“Killeen, _enough._ _”_ Aveline’s voice cracked like a whip — the original on which Killeen’s own parade-ground bellow was based, and still able to make her sphincter tighten.

 

She hauled the girl back over the banister and let her collapse on the floor, and turned to face Aveline. “An Orlesian woman with local connections to the great and grand, living outside the —”

 

“I gathered,” Aveline said tightly. She turned, began issuing orders to round up any women found in the house for interrogation, for the ‘butler’ to be taken to the cells in the Keep, and for the heads of each gate roster to report to her office, immediately. Then she turned back to Killeen. “And you — _a word._ ”

 

It was more than a word, and delivered in a tone that would have blistered paint. Killeen set her face in her best blank expression, looked over Aveline’s shoulder, and thought about _good homes, nice families,_ and how unlikely that would be.

 

“Are you listening to me?” Aveline demanded.

 

The correct answer was _yes ser, of course, ser_.

 

“Not really,” Killeen said. She shrugged slightly. “I don’t work for you anymore, Captain. Stop expecting me to act as if I do.”

 

“I let you come here today as a _favour_.” Aveline’s tone was icy, her eyes blazing. “I don’t expect you to act like you _work_ for me. I expect you to act like you’re a _guest_ in my city — not like the Champion of Kirkwall herself! Flames, as if we needed another one!”

 

Killeen was startled. “I thought you were friends.”

 

“Until she vanished and left me to deal with the mess,” Aveline said. “Like Cullen Rutherford. Like _you._ ”

 

 _Well, shit_. “Captain …” Killeen paused. “Cullen left because he had to. But I — I left for him. And I’m sorry. It was selfish, and I’m sorry.”

 

“You were in love with him, back then?” Aveline asked.

 

“ _Maker_ , yes,” Killeen said. “I was half in love with him the minute I saw him.”

 

“No wonder you took his side, after Meredith,” Aveline said.

 

 _Killeen_ _’s standing at ease in the Guard Captain’s office, wishing she was anywhere but here, gaze fixed on the wall to make absolutely sure she doesn’t catch either Cullen or Aveline’s eyes._

_But here is where she is, because after the night of blood and fire Kirkwall has been through, after the Guard has fought inch by bloody inch to restore a semblance of order to the streets, with the Chantry still smoldering, Aveline had said_ I need a runner to get down to Gallows and get the Knight Commander up here _and Killeen had volunteered, despite legs rubbery with exhaustion, because the Gallows is where Cullen will be —_

_If he lives._

_As distant as he_ _’s been since the night he let her know he could never return her affections with a pointed comparison to the Hero of Ferelden, Killeen wants him to be alive._ **_Needs_ ** _him to be alive, even if they have exchanged, will exchange, only the most perfunctory of greetings when they meet._

_She trots on legs that want to give way beneath her through Hightown and Lowtown and across the long walkway that leads to the Gallows. Even from the town, she can see the smoke rising — when she gets closer, she can see rubble, shattered statues, the proof of a mighty battle in which magic was deployed._

_Can see the Champion, coming wearily down the stairs._

_Can see Cullen, behind her._

_Her knees want to fold beneath her, but she forces them to hold, although she can no longer raise more than a walk. Closer, she can see that Cullen_ _’s face is ashen, his eyes hollow: he moves like a man asleep._

_“Cullen,” she says when she’s close enough, and it takes a moment before he turns his head to look at her, without recognition. “Cullen, where’s Knight Commander Meredith?”_

_“Gone,” he says flatly._

_“Dead?”_

_“No,” he says, and something like a horrible imitation of a smile twists his perfect lips._

_With the feeling that she is out of her depth, very badly out of her depth — and that she had better learn how to swim really fucking fast — Killeen puts her hand on his arm._ _“Aveline asked me to fetch the Knight Commander.”_

_The answer is a long time coming._ _“I think that’s me.”_

_“Then you’d better come to the keep.”_

_“All right,” he says numbly._

_They make a sad pair as together they make their way to the Keep. Cullen seems uninjured, but Killeen would bet a week_ _’s pay against him knowing where he is or why. She herself is weaving on her feet with exhaustion, starting to become light-headed._

_To cap it off, it begins to rain. Not a light rain, either: one of Kirkwall_ _’s patented shittiest-place-to-live-in-all-Thedas driving rains that gets down the neck and creates puddles in the street in moments._

_Killeen slips in one of them, goes down on one knee. Can_ _’t summon the strength to get up._

_She realises after a moment that Cullen has stopped, too: not waiting, so much, as simply standing now he has been deprived of the motivation to keep walking._

_“You go on,” she says. “I’ll catch you up.”_

_No flicker of expression on his face to show he_ _’s even heard her._

_Killeen manages to get her feet under her, heaves to her feet and slips again, going down full length this time._ _“Andraste’s frilly knickers!” She scrabbles for purchase on the slick cobblestones. “Maker’s geriatric truss, fuck this rain, why does it always rain on a bad day, you never have a fucking military disaster in full sunlight, oh, no, it’s always — Andraste’s nipple tassells — fucking rain —”_

_A hand takes her arm, lifts her to her feet, holds her there.  She looks up into Cullen_ _’s face, rain running down his forehead, something like recognition in his eyes. “How long have you been on your feet?” he asks._

_“What year is it?” Killeen asks, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.  She steadies herself on the wall.“I’ll be fine. You need to get up to the Keep. Aveline wants someone’s bollocks for earrings, and if I were you, I’d be quick to volunteer someone else’s.”_

_“I’m not facing Guard Captain Aveline without backup.” Cullen pulls her arm over his shoulders, taking her weight. “Come on.”_

_And that_ _’s how she ends up in the Guard Captain’s office,  staring at the wall as the full horror of the Gallows is discussed, as Aveline tells Cullen the Templar order in Kirkwall should be dissolved and Cullen disagrees._

_“What do you think, Killeen?” Aveline asks._

Well, shit. _This entire conversation is above her pay grade and expressing an opinion on it_ _…. “You’re both right, sers,” Killeen says._

_“Very diplomatic,” Aveline says._

_“Ser, I don’t mean to be. You’re right — what happened in Kirkwall’s Circle was more than a few abuses. The mages who left fled, escaped — anyone would have. And they’re men and women, and children too, with families in the city, families who now know what happened. Knight-Captain Cullen, ser, you can’t pretend that nothing’s changed.”_

_“Thank you,” Aveline said._

_“But Cullen’s right, too, Captain Aveline, ser,” Killeen said. “Jeven was before my time, but everyone knows the story. And he wasn’t the only one in the Guard’s history, was he? What about Rundle? Trading favours with the girls at the Rose. The Guard wasn’t disbanded, it was reformed. The Kirkwall Templars can be, too.”_

_“The city’s in pieces,” Aveline says. “I’ve no room or time for anyone to hold themselves above the work that needs to be done.”_

_“The Templars won’t,” Cullen says. “I promise you.”_

_“Will you work_ **_with_ ** _the Guard?_ _”_

_“Give us a liaison.” Cullen glances at Killeen. “Sergeant Killeen. I promise, her words will be taken as commands.”_

_And that is how Killeen finds herself promoted, fired from the role she loves, thrust into the deep end of a new order in Kirkwall, without a word from herself._

_Finds herself in the corridor outside Aveline_ _’s office, unable to make even the slightest sense of what’s happened, unable to catch her balance or make her legs support her …_

_Firm hand closes around her arm, steers her sideways until her shoulder fetches up against the wall and between the cool stone on one side of her and the gauntleted grip on her bicep she can keep her feet._

 

_"All right?" Cullen asks quietly, his broad shoulders between her and the main hall and any curious bystanders._

 

_“I’m fine,” Killeen tells him and any unseen listeners. “Sorry.”_

_“You should be,” Cullen says softly. “Fighting all night after a day on patrol, running the length of Kirkwall on an empty stomach … what sort of Guard can’t do that and turn around for a full day’s duty?”_

_“Are_ you _all right?_ _” she asks him._

_And for a second, his warm brown eyes register complete surprise, as if the last thing he ever expected is for another human being to ask him how he was — and mean it._

_“No,” he says, after a moment. “No. But I am … all right for now.”_

_“Did you just get me fired?”_

_“I’m sorry about that.” There’s amusement in his voice, she’s almost sure. “I — Kill. I can’t do this … I need your help.”_

_“You could have just_ **_asked_ ** _._ _”_

_“Next time, I will,” Cullen promises. “Can you walk?”_

No _, she wants to say, because then she can stand here a little longer, and_ _Cullen will keep talking to her without either the cool distance of recent months or today’s dull numbness in his voice._

_“Yes,” she says reluctantly. “What’s first?”_

_“First?”_

_Killeen looks up at him._ _“I’m your official liaison to the Guard, so_ liaise _with me. What do you need from the Guard, first? What are the Templars going to do?_ _”_

_Cullen shakes his head._ _“I hardly know.”_

_Killeen runs her hand through her hair, and then scrubs her face as if that will substitute for six or seven hours sweet sleep._ _“You need to update the active roster to reflect who’s still fit.”_

_“All right,” Cullen says. He lets go of her arm, steps back, hand still raised.  “It’ll be ready for you when you’ve rested.”_

_“An hour.”_

_“Two,” he counters. She nods, turns to go and seek her cot, stops as he says, “Kill.” He pauses, adds very softly, “Thank you.”_

Killeen shook off memory. “I didn’t take his side,” she told Aveline. “I didn’t take _anyone_ _’s_ side. You asked me what I thought. I told you.”

 

“And you ended up working side-by-side with Cullen Rutherford every day of the week,” Aveline said.

 

“I didn’t plan it,” Killeen said honestly. “At the time, if you’d asked me, I would have told you I didn’t _want_ it. And, Captain … you can’t honestly say it didn’t help. Can you?”

 

Aveline gave her a long, steady look. “No,” she said at last. “Things would have been a lot worse without Templar co-operation. You did good work, those three years.” She paused. “Before you _left._ ”

 

“Well, I’m back now,” Killeen said. The words came out without her planning them, but she realised that she meant them as she heard them out loud. “And I’ll stay, if you want.” _Maker, don_ _’t say yes, Aveline_ , she thought, knowing that she’d stand by her offer if it was taken up. _Don_ _’t say yes, Aveline, please._

“As if you would,” Aveline said, and Killeen felt her knees weaken with relief.  She took a deep breath as Aveline said, “Come on. Let’s find out what the butler saw.”


	37. In The Cells - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen gets some information

_17th Kingsway_

 

The Keep’s cells were exactly as Killeen remembered them, and as she followed Aveline down the stairs to the lower corridor she had a moment of dizzying disorientation. _Dank stone walls, guttering torches … the long row cells with their bars and their manacles … cold almost all year round except for the stifling heat of Justinian and Solace …_

She had heard some of the worst things it was possible to hear, in these cells, confessions, justifications, attempts at explanation — words doled out parsimoniously in sentences slowly coaxed or dragged from that day’s prisoner, or spilled out rapidly in a flood of desperate excuses and rationalisations. Had sat, from time to time, on one of the wooden trestles that served as bench and bed in each cell, shoulder-to-shoulder with a man or a woman who had done things no sane or normal person could even contemplate — things that were, somehow, worse than the deranged efforts of Corypheus to destroy the world and the devastation he had caused, precisely because of their small, intimate scale.

 

Killeen was _good with people,_ as her old sergeant had said, and so it was her, it was always her, sitting on the bench, sometimes taking the manacled hand of the monster beside her. _I understand. Just tell us the rest of it. What did you do next?_

 

The walls almost seemed to whisper their words back to her, _and then I … with the knife … didn’t mean … she made me …_ as if no time at all had passed, or as if she had never left at all, as if she never would —

But there had never been an occasion for her to be down here with _Aveline_ , and the other woman’s presence jerked Killeen back to the present.

 

“He says his name’s _Sam_ ,” Aveline said shortly. “Which is as likely as that he’s a butler. I’ll talk to him. Come in when the time’s right.”

 

They stopped outside the cell which held the man who’d opened the door at Madame de Follette’s. He sat, hands tied behind him, on the wooden bench fastened to the wall which was the cell’s only furniture.

 

Aveline unlocked the door, stepped inside, and leaned casually against the wall. “Normally I’d ask how you are,” she said. “Get to know you. Pretend to be a friend. But we’re in a hurry. So talk.”

 

“Nothing to say,” Sam snarled.

 

“You see her out there?” Aveline said with a jerk of her head toward Killeen. “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll let her in _here_.”

 

Killeen leant against the wall across from the cell door and tried to look bored. She took the knife from her boot, examined it, and began to clean her nails.

 

‘Sam’ the ‘butler’ eyed Killeen, and then shrugged. “Little girls don’t frighten me.”

 

Without shifting position, Killeen threw the knife through the bars of the cell. It landed with a _thunk_ in the bench — directly between Sam’s legs. He looked down at it, still vibrating, and then up at her.

 

Killeen smiled pleasantly, drew her sword, and made a show of cleaning her nails with _that._

 

“Reconsider,” Aveline urged. “She used to work for me. Until I had to fire her, for beating up one too many suspects. This girl I’m asking about? Her sister.”

 

“Look, I don’t know nothing about nothing,” the man said. “I just answer the door.”

 

Aveline nodded. “To who?”

 

He shrugged. “Deliveries. Madame. That’s all.”

 

“So you answer the door … and keep the girls from leaving,” Aveline said.

 

Sam laughed. “They don’t _want_ to leave,” he said. “Three meals a day and a roof over their heads, and work at the end of it? Would you?”

 

“Maybe not,” Aveline conceded. “But what kind of work are we talking about?”

 

“Nice jobs in nice houses,” he said, and shrugged again. “That’s what Madame says. They must be good jobs, too.”

 

“Why?” Aveline said.

 

“They don’t none of them come back.”

 

“What about the children?” Aveline asked. “Some of them have children, right?”

 

Yet another shrug. “I guess. I dunno.”

 

Aveline glanced at Killeen, and Killeen swung her sword about in her hand and went through the cell door fast. Before the ‘butler’ had a chance to react, she had her knee in his chest, her foot on his balls — and her sword at his throat. She reached down to tug the knife free from the bench with her free hand, spun it idly between her fingers. “Try again,” she said. “What about the children?”

 

“I did _tell_ you,” Aveline said to Sam, folding her arms.

 

“Look, I don’t know nothing about it!” the man protested, winced as Killeen put a little weight on the sword.

 

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Aveline said. “I don’t think he _does_ know anything.”

 

“I think you’re right,” Killeen said. “May as well kill him.”

 

“Now hold on —” the ‘butler’ said.

 

“Wait until I’m down the hall,” Aveline said. “Saves paperwork.”

 

“Sure,” Killeen said easily.

 

“ _Now hold on!”_

 

Aveline ignored him, turned on her heel and strode out. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, fading away into the distance.

 

Killeen turned her head as if judging how far away Aveline was, turned back to the prisoner with a thin smile.

 

“Hold on, hold on, _hold on!”_ he shouted. “Come back! I’ll tell you! Come back!”

 

Aveline returned, just a little bit faster than she should have been able to in Killeen’s opinion, but perhaps the Guard Captain was out of practice playing a prisoner, and at any rate, Sam didn’t seem to notice. “I’m listening,” she said.

 

“Get this bitch out of here,” Sam said. “Get her off me, and I’ll tell you.”

 

“Killeen?” Aveline said.

 

Killeen pretended to consider, then nodded reluctantly. She stepped back, sheathed her sword and stepped out of the cell. “I’m counting to five,” she said to Sam.

 

The ‘butler’ swallowed hard. “Mistress Millar in Lowtown!” he said. “That’s where they take them! The children! Mistress Millar in Lowtown!”

 

“Thank you,” Aveline said, and locked the door. “I know Tisa Millar,” she said grimly, starting towards the stairs. “She doesn’t run an orphanage.”

 

Killeen pushed her knife back into its boot-sheathe and followed, taking the steps two at a time. “What does she do?”

 

“Small scale smuggling, mostly,” Aveline said, keeping pace with her.

 

“Small like a baby small?”

 

They reached the door to the main hall together. “That’s what I’m thinking,” Aveline said. “Listen, I’ve had word of a carriage going out of the west gates just before curfew six days ago, curtains drawn. The gate guards — one of them, anyway — heard women talking inside it. There’s four estates on that road. We’ll check them all - Donnic’s taking a squad.”

 

Killeen snorted. “As if they’ll let you in.”

 

“Some might,” Aveline said. “That will narrow it down. Hey, Leith, Sanderson! With me.”

 

The two Guards she’d named fell in behind Aveline and Killeen as they reached the street. Fraser was waiting by the door.

 

“Go find Donnic,” Killeen said. “He’ll be heading out the city. Go with him, report back to me when you get back.”

 

“Ser,” Fraser said, and went.

 

They strode down through Hightown, through the market and into Lowtown. People who got a look at Aveline’s face got out of their way in a hurry — those who were slower to move found themselves shouldered aside.

 

“Here,” Aveline said, stopping outside a narrow, peeling door in an alley known to one and all as Adie’s Place, for reasons lost to time and memory. She raised her hand to knock.

 

Killeen kicked the door open and went through it.

 

The front room was empty, but Killeen could hear a baby crying, startled by the noise, and went that way, Aveline and the Guards close behind her. In the house’s narrow back room, they found four cots, six children between them. Killeen had no way of judging their age except they were larger than Felicity, smaller than Fel.

 

The back door swung open and she lunged through it, and saw a wiry woman of middle years trying to climb the courtyard wall. Three strides took her across the yard and she got hold of the woman’s leg and yanked her back down, sending her sprawling.

 

Tisa Millar came up with a knife in her hand. Killeen put her faith in Master Harritt’s mail and knocked the blade aside with her gauntleted hand, landed a short hard jab on Tisa’s jaw and, as the other woman reeled, swept her feet from under her with a low kick.

 

Tisa went down and Killeen landed on top of her, getting her hands behind her back with little care for her comfort. “Thomas Hanmount,” she said. “Is he one of those inside?”

 

“Those are all _my_ children!” Tisa protested.

 

“Then you are truly one of the Maker’s miracles,” Aveline said from the doorway. “Six children in two years, and not a one of them twins? We should call the Chantry.”

 

“Thomas Hanmount,” Killeen said again, twisting one of Tisa’s wrists to the point of breaking.

 

“I don’t fucking know, all right?” Tisa snarled. “All of them could be, as far as they tell me.”

 

“Leith, hold her,” Aveline said, and Killeen surrendered the woman to him. “Kill, you look. See if he’s here.”

 

“I’ve never seen him,” Killeen said. “All I know is he’s six months old, about. How big is that?”

 

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline muttered, and went back into the house. She was examining the children as Killeen joined her. “Girl, too old, girl, _far_ too old, — this could be him.”

 

Killeen looked doubtfully at the fat, fair-haired baby Aveline indicated. “Our family tends to run to dark.”

 

“You said you don’t know anything about the father,” Aveline pointed out. “Or what about this one? He _could_ be six months. On the small side.”

 

Killeen looked from one baby to the other. “Maker’s balls,” she said in frustration. “How the fuck should I know? They just look like _babies_.”

 

Aveline frowned. “Your sister will know, when we find her.”

 

“ _If_ you find her,” Killeen countered. She remembered the red-haired girl at Madame de Folette’s. _Gone, last week._

 

She strode back into the courtyard. Leith had hauled Tisa to her feet and was holding her with her arms behind her back. “When did those kids in there arrive?” Tisa glared at her, and then her mouth worked. Seeing it coming, Killeen stepped aside as the other woman tried to spit in her face, then took Tisa’s neck in one gauntleted hand. She squeezed, gently. “When?”

 

Tisa looked at her face, and blanched. “Three last week,” she said. “Two this morning. One a fortnight ago.”

 

“Which ones last week?” Killeen demanded. When Tisa hesitated, she squeezed a little harder, then let go to allow the other woman to speak.

 

“The girls, and the oldest boy!” Tisa squawked.

 

 _Neither_ of the babies was Thomas. “A boy was brought last week,” she said. “Six months old. Called Thomas. Might have had dark hair.”

 

Recognition flickered in Tisa’s gaze — followed by fear. “No,” she said quickly. “I never saw him. He was never here.”

 

“Listen to me,” Killeen said very evenly. “That child is my nephew. You _are_ going to tell me where he is.” She let go of Tisa’s throat, stepped back and drew her knife from her boot. “You’re going to tell me _before_ I cut off several of your rather important bits and pieces, or _after —_ but you will tell me.”

 

“You don’t scare me,” Tisa said through ashen lips. “I know the Guard. You have _rules_.”

 

“ _They’re_ the Guard,” Killeen said. She studied the blade of her knife. “ _I’m_ the Inquisition.”

 

“Killeen!” Aveline put her shoulder between the two of them. “You can’t —”

 

“Can you _stop_ me?” Killeen asked.

 

“I’m not fighting her, Captain,” Leith said. “Sorry. But I’ve got a kid on the way.”

 

“Andraste’s mercy, Killeen —” Aveline said. “Please.” She turned to Tisa, lowered her voice and said urgently, “Tell her. I think she’s — you should see what she did to Sam up at Madame de Follette’s. Flames, it was horrible. I can’t stop her. _Tell her_!”

 

 _Laying it on a bit thick,_ Killeen thought, but Tisa was to frightened to notice. Her gaze flickered from Aveline to Killeen. “I couldn’t stop him!” she burst out. “I couldn’t!”

 

“Stop who?” Aveline asked, dropping the act like a discarded cloak.

 

“I don’t know his name, I don’t, I swear I don’t!” Tisa babbled. “He comes to chose from the children every month! He came yesterday and he picked that little boy, the one you’re talking about! I couldn’t stop him! He has an arrangement with Madame!”

 

“How do we find him?” Killeen asked.

 

“I don’t know, I don’t — somewhere in Darktown, I think — I’m guessing, it’s just — that’s where they hide, isn’t it?”

 

“Who?” Killeen demanded. “Who is _they_?”

 

“Blood mages!” Tisa cried.


	38. In Darktown - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen meets someone new ... to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, this is now my second most popular story ever by kudos, subscribers and bookmarks.

_17th Kingsway_

* * *

 

 

“We haven’t had much problem with maleficar recently,” Aveline said. “They usually nest down in the south east quarter of Darktown. We’ll —”

Killeen turned on her heel and strode back through the house.

 

 _“Killeen!_ ” Aveline shouted behind her. “Wait!”

 

Killeen didn’t stop. Behind her, she could hear Aveline giving orders — _rouse everyone, all shifts, get the Templars up here, throw a net over Darktown, full sweep._

How long would it take to turn them all out, get them organised, get them moving? As efficient as the Kirkwall Guard had become after years of Aveline’s leadership, _too long_ was the only answer. With the best will in the world, men and women had to wake, or return to the barracks, the had to arm, to reach rallying points …

 

 _Too long_.

 

 _Wait_ , Aveline had said.

 

 _Wait_ , Killeen herself had said, once, outside a truly unremarkable door, _wait for the warrant,_ and when the warrant came and they entered _legally_ …

 

No. She would not _wait_ this time, not with her nephew’s life perhaps in the balance, not with _any_ child’s life in the balance.

 

If he lived. The odds on that were bad ones. _Almost as bad as the odds on me seeing sunrise tomorrow._

If Thomas still lived — _if_ — then the distraction she might provide would, at the very least, make the Guard’s passage easier and faster. Even better, if she reached the part of Darktown where Aveline said blood mages congregated — and Killeen thought she _would_ get that far — and whatever ritual they had planned was incomplete, she could delay them at least a little, perhaps even kill enough to leave too few for their ritual at all.

 

Before the odds caught up with her.

Killeen shoved the knowledge of those odds down into the box in her mind, along with the memory of what blood mage rituals could look like, along with the sting of Aveline’s disapproval and the sharp, clear memories of these streets, these lanes, these _people_ …

 

Along with the memory of Cullen’s face, smile beautiful as the sunrise, as he said _All those times, did you really never know I was looking at **you**? _

And her imagination’s picture of his face if she should fail to pull this off.

 

Slammed the lid of that box shut.

Cold and clear and battle-ready, Killeen checked her weapons as she strode through the streets, adjusted the set of one glove and shrugged her shoulders to settle her coat. The closest entrance to the south-east part of Darktown, if her memory was correct, was two blocks east of the _Hanged Man_ , a trapdoor in an alley — _there_. She took hold of the handle and heaved, exposing narrow wooden steps leading down into the Undercity.

 

One last check of her gear and she was on the stairs, the staccato of her boot-heels on the steps echoing off the stone walls, loud announcement that here came someone in a hurry — someone too stupid, or too desperate, or too _deadly_ , to be careful even in Darktown.

 

The momentary consideration by Darktown’s denizens of which one of the three Killeen was would buy her several seconds of time from their hesitation.

 

She needed those seconds.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind Killeen knew that what she was doing was dangerous, but the knowledge was merely a strategic consideration. _No room for error, no room to hesitate. Fast and hard, achieve the objective and back out again._ That _the objective_ was a child was another strategic consideration. _I’ll have one hand tied up on the way out._

Fifteen feet down the narrow corridor, a flicker of movement caught her eye and without pausing her stride Killeen drew her sword ringing from its scabbard, holding it low and angled in the way that told any knowledgeable observer that she was _very_ experienced at fighting in close quarters. The flicker backed off a little, but still followed. _Any minute now there’ll be more … keep moving, keep moving **fast**. _

Darktown had changed since the last time she’d been down here, Darktown changed almost every week as wooden partitions were put up and torn down. Killeen navigated by the stone walls that never changed, by the occasional low of light from grilles far above her head, by a decade’s practice at knowing exactly where she was within Kirkwall’s walls by the number of steps she’d taken and the turns she made.

 

And yes, there were more behind her now. Soon they’d get up their courage, or muster sufficient numbers, to try and take her. If that happened when she was somewhere she couldn’t get her back to a wall …

 

Sounds of a scuffle, a curse — the unmistakable wet noise of a sharp blade going into someone’s gut, the groan of a dying man. They were fighting among themselves over who would get the chance at her gleaming mail, her fine weapons. _Good_.

 

Left, left again — _there_. The archway she was looking for. It was barricaded with a makeshift assortment of broken furniture and pieces of wood, which was an inconvenience but also a welcome sign that whatever maleficars lurked behind it had either insufficient power or insufficient skill to summon a magical barrier.

 

_It could mean they’ve already exhausted whatever power they summoned with Thomas’ blood._

_But it **could** mean they haven’t completed the ceremony yet. _

 

Killeen unslung her shield and ran forward.

 

From beyond the barricade a blast of frost hurtled toward her, but she was holding her shield the way Cullen had shown her in Haven, the way Templars did, angled so that hostile magic would splatter down and away and not up into her face. She reached the archway and, with two quick blows from her sword at the flimsiest chair, cleared a way and was through.

 

More than one mage beyond it, backing away, staffs rising to cast. Killeen ducked low, dropped her sword to the ground and seized a piece of wood from the barricade. She flung it at the nearest mage, hitting him hard enough to make him gasp and drop his staff, scooped up her sword and rose in one swift movement. Another blast of cold hit her, this one leaking around the edge of her shield and frosting her arm.

 

Killeen raised her sword and shield and closed fast with the frost mage as the woman fumbled in her robes. _Lyrium potion, she’s exhausted her resources_. Before the maleficar could swallow the potion Killeen reached her and smashed her across the face with her shield.

 

She felt the woman’s skull give beneath the blow and was already turning to face her last opponent before the frost mage hit the ground.

 

A man, this one, tall, lean — something about his face suggest elven blood although he wore a hood and Killeen couldn’t see his ears.

 

He raised his arms, chanting, and around him the ground began to shimmer and bubble.

 

“It always has to be fucking demons,” Killeen said, drew back her arm and flung her sword as she would have thrown a knife.

 

It took the mage in the chest, cutting him off mid-chant. His arms fell, and the ground began to subside toward normality. Killeen strode toward him.

 

“Down!” a man’s voice yelled behind her, and in instinctive reaction she dropped flat to the floor.

 

The blast of fire that would have incinerated her went straight over her head and turned the mage in front of her into a charred corpse.

 

Killeen lunged, drew her sword free, the hilt warm even through her gauntlets. She rolled to the side as she got to her feet to fox the last mage’s aim, turned and saw —

 

A complete stranger, a sandy-haired man in not-bad-quality armour, parrying a blow from the mage’s staff. The stranger staggered a little as he did it, overbalanced and recovered to catch a blast of fire on his shield. Killeen could see he was weaving on his feet like a man who’d lost so much blood he was on the edge of collapse and ran forward, charging into the mage with her shield and her full body weight behind it, sending him sprawling. She kicked him between the legs, stamped hard on the hand reaching for his staff, and put her sword to his throat.

 

“Nicely done,” the stranger slurred. He stumbled over to look down at the prostrate mage. “Nev’r v’ry welcoming, are they? Blood mages. Eith’r all snooty and sarsactic — _sarcastic —_ or it’s _here, have a fireball to the face._ ”

 

He belched, and at the wine fumes on his breath, Killeen revised her assessment of his condition. _Not injured._

_Drunk_.

 

“Who are you?” she asked warily. He’d probably saved her life — but this was Darktown, and he was in it.

 

“Oh! S’rry.” He sheathed his sword on the third attempt and gave her an elaborate, courtly bow, somewhat ruined when he nearly toppled over in the middle of it. “Alistair. Used t’ have ‘nother name. Doesn’t matter now. Just Alistair.”

 

“And what are you doing here?”

 

“Fowolling — fowling — _following —_ you.” Alistair swayed toward her, waved a finger. “Shouldn’t come down h’re ‘lone, you know. Not safe. There were some peoples goin’ to stab you. Stab-stab-stabbity.” He grinned. “Dead now. Mostly.”

 

 _Maker give me strength._ Still, even staggering drunk as he was, he’d acquitted himself well. “I’m down here looking for my nephew.”

 

Alistair blinked. “He’s a blood mage?”

 

“He’s a baby,” Killeen said shortly. She turned her attention to the mage. “The little boy you bought last week. Where?”

 

“I — I don’t — I don’t —”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Killeen kicked him in the balls again and as he curled up, sheathed her sword, and bent down to seize him by the front of his robe. She hauled him upward, shoved him against the wall, and backhanded him across the mouth. “This is why I hate Kirkwall,” she said conversationally. “No-one ever answers a straight question. Ask someone if the sun is shining and they say _who wants to know_?” She slapped him again. “Ask them what their name is and they say _well, people **call** me …_ do you know how boring that gets? Do you?” The mage stared at her. “Do you know how tired my arms get having to beat people to paste just to get _a fucking straight answer to a fucking simple question_ all day? Where is the boy? Where —” she pulled him forward a little, slammed him back against the wall hard. “Is. The. _Boy_?”

 

“In the back! In the back!” he blurted.

 

Killeen glanced around the room. _No doors._ “In the back _where_?”

 

“There’s a door behind the bookshelf! It swings out!”

 

“Check,” Killeen said to Alistair, ruthlessly crushing the leap of hope that Thomas would be there, would be unharmed.

 

Alistair wove his way across the room, found the door, and peered through. “Baby,” he said, and in response, Killeen heard a thin wail. _Alive._ It was information to factor into her tactical plans, no more.

 

“Thank you,” she said politely to the maleficar, let him go and stepped back.

 

“You’re welcome,” the mage said automatically.

 

Killeen drew her sword and stabbed him through the heart.

 


	39. In Alewives' Square - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen discovers one of the hazards of babies

_17th Kingsway_

* * *

 

She turned to see Alistair staring at her in what might have been shock.

 

“That was a bit, um …”

 

“Sensible?” Killeen asked. She sheathed her sword and crossed to peer through the door.

 

The room beyond was dimly lit by candles in the approved _evil mage_ manner. Unlike the books, though, which always had tall, black candles dripping elaborate patterns of wax, these candles were a motley assortment of different shapes and colours, including a pink one that Killeen was almost certain had originally been one of Mistress Eva’s Emporium novelty cock-shaped candles for a romantic evening. _Times are obviously tough in the blood mage business_.

 

Runes in chalk were sketched across the floor, and in their centre, naked and crying, was a dark-haired baby boy.

 

Killeen cat-footed her way carefully around the outside of the runes, careful not to touch them, looking for a break in the lines.

 

“I don’ think he’s happy,” Alistair observed.

 

“I gather that,” Killeen said absently, and then caught her breath as Alistair stumbled forward. “No, don’t —” she cried as his foot came down on the first chalk line.

 

And absolutely nothing happened. Alistair picked up the baby with elaborate care and cradled it in the crook of his arm. “There you are. All safe now.”

 

_In Darktown, safe is a matter of opinion._ “That was stupid,” Killeen said. “You have no idea what the runes might have done.”

 

“Not copl — coml — _finished_ ,” Alistair explained. “No magic.”

 

“And how could you —” Killeen paused. “Maker’s balls, you’re a _Templar_.”

 

“Used to be,” Alistair said. “Long story. Long, long, looooong story. This your nephew?”

 

Killeen came closer, still unable to bring herself to step directly on the chalk-marks, and peered at the child in the dim light. The baby wailed again, but didn’t seem injured. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him before.”

 

“’nother long story,” Alistair said wisely, and tapped the side of his nose with one finger — or tried to: he missed by an inch or so. “Can’t leave him here, anyway. Fastest way out?”

 

Back the way they’d come in didn’t seem smart. _Let’s see, we’re about four blocks from where the Chantry used to be … which means we’re two down and one along from Alewives’ Square, which means …_ “This way,” she said, then paused. “Maybe I should carry the kid.” But that would mean she couldn’t use her shield if they hit trouble … “Look, just don’t drop him or anything.”

 

“I’m isuntled,” Alistair said with dignity. “Can hold a baby.”

 

“You obviously can’t hold your liquor,” Killeen said, drawing her sword again and leading the way back out into the corridors. “So you’ll have to forgive my caution.”

 

“’scuse me very much, I hold my liquor very well, thank you,” Alistair said, following her. “You know how mush I have to drink theshe days? Ish not cheap, I can tell you.” He gave a short, ugly laugh. “You’re lucky thish washn’t a week I had t’ pawn my sword.”

 

“Pawn your —” Killeen bit the rest of that sentence off. _Maker’s balls, I’d sooner starve than sell my sword for food, let alone for a drink._ But Alastair had helped her, was _still_ helping her. That he was a degenerate drunk fallen low enough to pawn his sword, a disgrace to his armour and to professional fighters everywhere, was contemptible, but not, at the moment, relevant. “So, what, you just hang around the streets drinking and looking for trouble?” she asked instead, ducking ahead and checking the next cross-corridor. _Nothing_. Sensible people — even in Darktown — made themselves scarce when magic was flying around.

 

“Yep,” Alistair said. “Well, the drinking part. Trouble, not sho much.” He pulled a face. “Had enough of that.”

 

“You fight very well for a drunk who doesn’t like trouble.” _Almost there._

 

“Had prastic — _practice,”_ Alistair said, following her. “Too mush practice,” he added sadly. “Too, too much. Too, too, too —”

 

“I get the picture,” Killeen said. _One more_ — the clash of arms came from the corridor ahead of them and she flung up her hand to warn Alistair.

 

“Don’ thin’ you _do_ ,” he said. “Not really. No one doesh.”

 

_Oh, Andraste’s tits, he’s going to start crying in a minute._ “Could you maybe save it until after we get out of here?” Killeen asked. ‘Wait a moment.”

 

She crept forward until she could peer around the corner and see what they faced. A swirling knot of combat in the narrow confines of the corridor — dwarves, and she recognised the cut of their armour. _Carta_.

 

_Well, shit_.

 

Then she recognised the voice yelling _Guard, to me, to me!_

 

_Aveline_.

 

“Stay here,” she snapped to Alistair, unslung her shield, and flung herself into the fray.

 

The nearest dwarf spun before Killeen could reach her, threw a dagger that found its way past Killeen’s shield and hit her shoulder. Killeen hoped it wasn’t poisoned — _that would be a shitty way to go, vomiting up your bowels in a Darktown corridor_ — closed the rest of the distance and shoved the dwarf backwards.

 

Tried to — the dwarf was damnably fast, evaded most of the impact, came back at Killeen with another knife held low, angled to rip open an opponent’s thigh. Killeen turned on one heel, let the blow go past her, managed to catch the dwarf on the arm before she could recover.

 

The hum of arrows in flight made her fling up her shield before a _thwack_ and the sight of a feathered shaft protruding from her opponent’s back let her know the archers were from the Guard. The dwarf grunted with the impact, but kept fighting — slower now.

 

Killeen slashed, parried — took a step back, pivoted — went in low and fast and felt her sword bite through armour into flesh, thrust past the resistance and saw the Carta dwarf’s eyes go flat and dead.

 

She spun to face her next opponent but there was none.

 

“Killeen!” Aveline yelled. “Move it!”

 

Turning back to beckon Alistair on, she found him already close behind her, and seized his arm, hustling him along the corridor into the knot of Guards and Templars. She checked her shoulder to see how badly she’d been hurt, and was surprised to see nothing more than a line scored across the surface of her mail. _Well done Master Harritt_ , she thought.

 

“That him?” Aveline said, looking at the baby.

 

Killeen shrugged. “Could be. And this is —”

 

“Alistair,” Aveline said, and the drunk blinked at her owlishly.

 

“Lady Man Hands!” he exclaimed. “Delighted.”

 

“Flames,” Aveline said disgustedly, eyeing him. “You’re drunk. Again.”

 

“Still,” Alastair corrected.

 

“Captain …” one of the Guards said at a sound further down the corridor, and Aveline turned.

 

“Fighting retreat, by twos,” she ordered. “Dorimor, sound it for anyone who can hear.”

 

The Guards fell into ranks without hesitation, one taking the horn from his belt to blow the familiar signal, two long blasts and a triplet followed by the broken note that told any Guard hearing it to pass the message along. From the distance, distorted by the winding corridors, Killeen heard another horn take up the cry as their little group began to make its way back to the surface, and safety.

 

They were only a short block away from the ladder that led up to the dry cistern in Alewives’ Square. The Guards formed a square around the foot of the ladder, Killeen, Alastair and the two Templars in the middle. “Up you go,” Killeen said to Alistair.

 

He looked at the ladder, down at the child he still carried. “Uh…”

 

“Give him to me, then,” Killeen said, and Alistair handed the baby over. He promptly began to scream. “Hush,” Killeen told him. Remembering Aveline and Felicity, she rocked him back and forth. “Hush. _Hush._ ”

 

Thomas — if he indeed _was_ Thomas — was not inclined to be soothed, and so Killeen made the climb up the ladder in fairly trying conditions: Alistair above her, constantly about to lose his grip and fall on her, and the baby screaming and kicking in the grip of the one arm Killeen could spare from the climb.

 

After what seemed an age, the coin of light above her head widened and then widened further until her head and shoulders emerged into the air and she could pull herself over the lip of the cistern and tumble into the square. She managed to curl around the baby as she fell, rolling so as not to crush him, and lay panting on her back on the cobblestones.

 

“There,” she said. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

 

The child arched his back and pissed in her face.

 

Killeen swore and spat and tried to scrub her eyes with her gauntleted hand as Alistair laughed until he fell over and, one by one, the others began to appear at the top the ladder behind them.

 

Aveline was the last. She stood, hands on hips, looking down at Killeen. “What in the _Void_ did you think you were doing?” she snapped, raising her voice to be heard over the baby’s screams.

 

Blinking her stinging eyes, Killeen squinted up at the Guard Captain silhouetted against the sky she had not expected to see again. Something rattled against the lid of the box in her mind. Killeen held it firmly shut. “Getting Thomas,” she said, and then, louder, “Getting Thomas!”

 

“If I’ve lost anyone due to that stunt of yours …” Aveline bit the sentence off. “Flames, Killeen, you were always one for risks but I never would have said you were _reckless._ We do things by the book for a reason, because working together _keeps people alive_.”

 

“I’m not in your Guard and I don’t read your _book_ ,” Killeen snapped.

 

“You’ve made that abundantly clear!”

 

“They had the lines for the ritual already drawn,” Killeen said. “Maker’s balls, Captain, if I’d waited, by the time your people fought their way through in force, he’d have been dead.” She spat again. “For the love of Andraste, give me a canteen!”

 

Aveline crouched beside her and held out her hand. One of the Guard put a water canteen in it, and Aveline uncapped it. “Head back,” she said. Killeen obeyed, and Aveline poured water over her eyes, and then offered the canteen to her. Killeen took it, rinsed her mouth and spat.

 

“Maker’s throbbing cock, that’s foul,” she said.

 

“Wait until you change your first clout,” Aveline said with what seemed, to Killeen, to be a certain amount of satisfaction.

 

“Here.” Killeen held the baby out to her. “Can you shut him up?”

 

Aveline shook her head. “Oh, no. I have my own problems. He’s probably hungry. Or cold. Or just scared.”

 

“How do you tell?” Killeen asked, looking down at the now red-faced child.

 

Aveline stood up. “Just try everything until something works.”

 

“Just try _everything_?” _Maker fuck me blind._

 

“Good luck,” Aveline said, standing, and she _definitely_ sounded smug. “I’ve got _your mess_ to clean up. Guard, with me. Sethin, get a report on the group that went in through Miller’s Lane.” She beckoned to the Templars. “You two, get me a list of any casualties among your lot. Dorimor —”

 

What her orders were to Dorimor, Killeen didn’t hear as the Guard Captain strode away. The square emptied, leaving her with a screaming Thomas — _if he **was** Thomas — _ and a giggling Alistair.

 

“Hush,” she said again to the baby, and to Alistair, “Shut up!”

 

Neither paid the least bit of attention to her.

 

The piercing screams of the infant tugged at her nerves, sending messages of _danger, emergency_ , telling her to _react, act, immediately, now_. But they were alone in the square — there was no imminent danger — Killeen spun between _safe_ and _not safe_ , the lid of the box in her mind rattling dangerously —

 

Ruthlessly, she put her whole weight against it, and got to her feet, clutching the squirming child. “Thanks for your help,” she told Alastair. “I’m at the _Hanged Man_ , if there’s anything I can do to repay the debt.”

 

He looked up at her owlishly. “Wouldn’t have a few coins, would you?”

 

_Which you’ll spend on drink._ Still, not her business. “Not handy,” she said, it being Kirkwall, where no sane person carried more than the minimum on their belt, and not being inclined to pull off her boot and show any onlookers the gold and silver she still had left of the funds Cullen had insisted she draw for the journey. “I’ll bring it to you. Where?”

 

Alistair shrugged. “Alley behind the _Champion’s Head_ ,” he said after a moment. “Unless it’s raining. Usually go to Anvil Square when it rains.”

 

_Andraste’s tasselled tits._ “You’re sleeping on the street?” When he nodded, she shifted the infant to one arm, bent down to seize Alastair’s elbow with her other hand, and hauled him to his feet. “Come on. I’ll get you a room, for tonight at least.”

 

“Really shouldn’t bother,” he said. “Rather have the coin.”

 

“I’d rather have you under a roof,” Killeen said, steering him in the direction of the _Hanged Man_. “Maker’s balls, man. You used to be a Templar. You can fight. What the fuck happened to you?”

 

“A woman,” Alastair said, stumbling beside her. “Two. Women.”

 

“Held you down and poured wine down your throat?” Killeen wasn’t sure which of them, the baby or the drunk, was the greater hindrance, but at least Thomas had quietened a little. _If he **is** Thomas, _ she reminded herself.

 

Alistair laughed bitterly. “If only. Nothin’ so pleasant. Hey, Lady Man Hands — you know her?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said. “And you know Isabela, I’m guessing.”

 

He grinned. “She’s my friend. She’s fun. Not like your friend. No fun at all. Always with the shouting and the arresting and the narrowed eyes and the folded arms.”

 

“Maybe you should stop calling her _Lady Man Hands_ ,” Killeen suggested. They reached the _Hanged Man_ , and she let go of his arm long enough to open the door, grabbed him again as he started to list to the side. “Come on. You’ve got some sleeping off to do.”

 

“Pfft,” Alistair said, shook himself free and made a beeline for the bar. “I’ve got some _drinking_ to do.”


	40. On Board - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen thinks of the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done some art! It's at the beginning of the first chapter of Side by Side.

_24th Kingsway_

* * *

 

Cullen paced the deck.

 

There was room for pacing. No fast cutter such as the one Leliana had arranged for Killeen would have served their little company — the ship that had been waiting for them at Gwaren was a heavy galleon, with ample room for all of them, mounts included.

 

More welcome even than the sight of their transport to Kirkwall, the captain of the vessel had handed a letter to Cullen. He recognised Leliana’s hand, the raven seal that no agent of the Inquisition would tamper with if they valued their continued existence this side of the Void, and opened it, hoping for news of Killeen, fearing some emergency that would call him back to Skyhold at speed, at once.

 

The familiar spiky writing inside took him by surprise, as vivid an evocation of Kill as if, for just a moment, she had stood close beside him, had touched his arm.

 _Ser Bear,_ she had written. _We take ship in the morning. All are well. I would be more comfortable if there were more than N here to keep an eye on my girl and her friends. I hope to conclude matters quickly and return soon._

Leliana’s last message had told him Killeen had left from Highever, without horses. _My girl_ must be Firefly — and well he knew how Killeen would have fretted to leave her behind, even under the care of what must mean _Norris_.

 

The letter went on, _There are other things I could say here were this not official correspondence and likely to be read by Nightingale. Consider them said. Yours, KH. PS: I make allowances for our speed of travel and reserve judgement on the justice of your sister’s opinion._

So, no letters of his had reached her when she had written this — and, more importantly, the letter had not been written under any coercion. Killeen would have found a thousand ways to tell him, if it had been, and most certainly would not have included a reference to a conversation only he and she would remember.

 

_All are well._

_There are other things I could say here …_

Cullen half-wished she had said them, even as he was glad she had put nothing overly personal in a note that had likely passed through several sets of hands before reaching Leliana.

It had not occurred to him, in the haste of her departure, that she had no personal seal, but simply used whichever one belonged to the company she was assigned to when away from Skyhold. And it was very like Killeen not to think of appropriating one of the Inquisition’s general seals for her travels — of a piece with her reluctance to have her armour anything other than drawn from the general stock.

 

 _Well, I will see her in days,_ Cullen thought, looking out over the waves. _Perhaps even tomorrow_. There had been the slight delay of putting in at Highever and collecting Norris and the horses, Firefly included, but the thought of Killeen’s face when she saw her mare again made it worthwhile.

 

 _And Fel, too_ … He knew she had missed the girl.

 

The thought reminded him that he had to find a way to persuade Fel there was no need for her to keep sleeping across his doorway. To see Killeen again, to share a bed with her — but without privacy … _Maker’s breath, I’ll go mad._

 

He turned to see if Fel was in sight, to make another attempt at the argument, but couldn’t see her. About to make his way below to find her, he paused as Mia emerged from the hatch.

 

She wrapped her cloak around her more tightly against the sea breeze and came cautiously along the deck toward him. Cullen met her, offering his arm, and she took it gratefully.

 

“How much further?” she asked.

 

Cullen turned so his body was between her and the wind. “Tomorrow, for a certainty. Perhaps tonight. You’re not ill, are you?” Killeen had been unwell, the one sea-crossing they had made together, clinging to the rail and retching. He wondered how she had managed the crossing from Highever.

 

“No,” Mia said. “I quite enjoy it, actually — rushing down the waves and sweeping up the next.”

 

“Perhaps you have a career in the navy ahead, then,” Cullen said, and Mia laughed.

 

“I have my own crew at home to manage,” she said. “Although I am enjoying our little adventure.”

 

“Kirkwall isn’t …” Cullen paused. She had not seemed to hear him any of the other times he had tried to explain. _Still …_ He tried again. “It’s not what you might expect.”

 

“You lived there for nearly a decade, Cullen,” Mia said. “It can’t be _all_ bad, or you wouldn’t have stayed.”

 

“I stayed for duty,” Cullen said. “Not by choice.”

 

_Duty, yes … duty, and fear, and the chains he had not noticed wrapping him around until he tried to break them._

After the day he had realised just what lyrium was taking from him, had tried to take less … the first time he had experienced what it was like to _want_ , to _need_ …

 

_He is not entirely sure whether it is purely the lack of lyrium, or the absence of lyrium’s soothing song, but his nerves will not stop thrumming, the shapes dancing at the edge of his vision are clear enough to have his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, and his nights are an unending nightmare of the Hero-not-Hero — of hands and lips and tongue —_

_His sword is part drawn before he realises that the sound that has startled him is Killeen rapping on his door._

_And he will not admit to anyone, let alone to her, that he is losing the ability to tell past from present, that a part of him is always trapped in a corridor in the Circle Tower in that last moment before —_

_His temper is so uncertain these days it is easy to unleash it, to send her away, to make her leave him alone to grapple with the demons of thought and memory and desire on his own._

_Except this is Killeen, and she refuses to go._

_This is Killeen, and somehow, in a conversation that inexplicably involves jokes about nugs, she persuades him to leave the growing pile of paperwork on his desk and join her for a drink._

_The tavern is one he’s never been to, but it’s …_ nice _, is the only word Cullen can come up with: not all that busy, with the tables spaced well apart, large windows set high in the wall to show the sky as if they are not in the middle of Kirkwall but in some isolated rural inn._

_And perhaps that’s why he finds himself telling her about his family, about playing chess with Mia._ You’ll have to teach me _, Killeen says, and suddenly, for the first time in a long time, Cullen can imagine a future that is more than days and nights of nightmare — a future that includes hours spent across the chessboard from this woman with her calm grey eyes and her unpredictably filthy turns of phrase._

_And then, somehow, they are talking about the Blight, about the Hero, and Andraste’s mercy, this is the last thing he wants to talk about, to Killeen, to_ anyone _. Cullen says something, heart pounding, not sure what words are coming out of his mouth, trying to carry on a conversation while_ Maker, no, _and_ do you like this? How about this? _rings in his ears._

_Knows, as Killeen’s face goes bland and blank, that he has said the wrong thing, has said too much._

_He’s not much of a one for drinking, Templars generally speaking aren’t, but he downs the beer in front of him as if it’s water, and the one that follows, rather than look at the expression on Killeen’s face now she’s heard … now she’s heard whatever he’s betrayed._

_The evening gets blurry after that, a vague memory of stumbling out into the street, Killeen’s arm strong around his waist — a single, sharp, recollection of her arms around him, his face against her neck —_

_He wakes alone in his bed, head pounding, still able to feel her shoulders beneath his hands, still able to smell oiled leather and metal polish and sweat … It feels different to anything he can remember or remember imagining, it feels warm and solid and as if it makes_ him _more solid … it feels nice, the closest, wholly inadequate word he can come up with._

That _memory stays with him for days, clear and hard and real beside the shadows dropping out of alleys behind him, the nightmare of_ do you like this?

 

_Stays with him until he sees Killeen again, asks her if she’d like to get a drink, perhaps a meal — thinking that perhaps that meal might end with … he does not know what he hopes that meal might end with, only that he can still feel her strong arms around him, can still remember how her body felt in his arms._

_Her face is expressionless as she shakes her head._ Not tonight.

 

_Not ever._

_What had he said, in those few sentences across the table from her — or later, in the gaps he can’t remember between leaving the tavern and waking in his bed? Or —_ Maker _— done, even?_

_The Quartermaster’s assessing glance passes over his shaking hands, lingers on his face._

_The next day, the dose she hands him is larger._ The Knight Commander recommends …

_He takes it._

 

“Cullen?” Mia said.

 

He blinked memory away, turned to look down at her. “Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere for a moment.”

 

“Nowhere good, I’d say,” Mia said.

 

“No.” Cullen paused. “Mia, there are many things … I haven’t told you, about Kirkwall, about my time there. Things I would spare you. My time there … it is not a pleasant memory.” He managed a smile. “But it is just memory. And much work has been done in Kirkwall recently, to restore the city.”

 

“Tomorrow, then,” Mia said. “Are you coming downstairs? It’s almost time for the dinner bell.”

 

“In a few moments,” Cullen assured her, and she nodded and made her way back to the hatch.

 

Once she was safely below decks, Cullen turned back to the rail. In the gathering gloom, it was impossible to see if the Wall or the Twins were on the horizon, and the evening wind was chill, even through his cloak.

 

Still, he stood at the rail, straining his eyes against the murk, until full dark and the dinner bell forced him below. 


	41. In The Hanged Man - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen discovers some further hazards of babies

_18th - 21st Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

There were no spare rooms at the _Hanged Man_ , so Killeen deposited Alistair in Fraser’s room — once she’d pried him away from the bar. Encumbered as she was with a once-again-screaming baby, it took some time, but finally she made it up the stairs with possibly-Thomas under one arm and the other around Alistair’s waist, the general hilarity of the _Hanged Man’s_ patrons echoing behind her.

Dumping Alistair on Fraser’s bed, Killeen repaired to her own room, and set the baby down on the bed. _Maker’s balls, what do I do now?_

 

The screams of the infant went through her like a knife in the ear. ‘Are you hungry?” Killeen asked him. “Are you cold? What’s wrong with you?”

 

No answer but more wails.

 

Killeen scrubbed her hands over her face. The only person she could think of in all of Kirkwall who she knew would know what to do with a screaming child was Aveline. _And I doubt she’s in the mood to give me advice._

_All right. Step by step._ She yanked her spare shirt out of her bag and wrapped the baby in it, then hoisted him again and went back downstairs.

 

“I need food for the child,” she said to the bar-keep.

 

He started to laugh, looked at Killeen’s face, and thought better of it. “Is it weaned?” he asked.

 

“How the fuck should I know?” Killeen snapped. “Do I look like it’s mine? Just give me some … mashed something. And milk. Babies like milk, don’t they?” She remembered Aveline’s words. “And clouts.”

 

“Room rate doesn’t cover the washing,” the barkeep said.

 

 _Jean, if you are still alive, I will strangle you with my bare hands._ “Fine,” Killeen said. “Just send it all up to my room.”

 

Most of the food ended up on the outside, rather than the inside, of the baby boy — and on Killeen, the floor, and the bed. The child swallowed enough, however, to persuade him to stop crying. Remembering Aveline and Felicity, Killeen raised him to her shoulder and patted his back until he gave an almighty belch, and then laid him back on the bed, where he promptly fell asleep.

 

The silence was blissful. Killeen sat down on the floor and put her head in her hands. _All right_ , she thought. _Crying means hungry. That’s useful information. When he cries, feed him._

Over the next few days, however, Killeen learned that crying also meant _cold_ , or _dirty_ , or, as far as she could tell _, bored._ She fed the baby. She changed the baby’s dirty clouts. She washed the clouts herself in the pump-yard behind the inn. On her way back to her room, she saw Alistair at the bar, apparently steadily drinking his way through the coin she’d given him, and ignored it. _Not my problem._

 

The baby boy who might or might not be Thomas was her problem, and her world shrank to one room, to endless efforts at poking mash into a screaming mouth, to waking every few hours to more screaming, to filthy clouts and screaming, to pacing up and down the floor with the child in her arms when it was the only thing to get him to stop, even briefly, screaming …

 

Killeen was in such a daze of sleeplessness and ruthlessly suppressed panic that when Fraser knocked on the door, it took her a moment to recognise him and remember why he was there.

 

“Report,” she said finally.

 

Fraser seemed as taken aback as she had been, staring at the baby in her arms. “Uh …”

 

“My nephew,” Killeen said. “Probably. Did you find my sister?”

 

“Oh, no,” Fraser said, collecting himself. “But he’s pretty sure where she is. One of the estates is abandoned, two of them let us in to search, so it’s likely it’s the fourth one she was taken to — if she was in the carriage at all.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t get in. Place belongs to some rich bastard, no title, made his money off building supplies. Made a lot of it, from the look of the place from the road.”

 

“Plenty of demand here, in the past few years,” Killeen said. “What’s the plan?”

 

“Donnic’s gone to tell the Guard-Captain,” Fraser said. “I came here to report to you.”

 

Killeen nodded. She set the baby down on the bed, shrugged into her mail, and belted on her sword. “I’ll find out. Keep an eye on the kid.”

 

“Now wait a minute —” Fraser started to say, but Killeen had already pushed past him and was on her way down the stairs.

 

The autumn sunlight seemed pale and unreal, the streets and the people crowding them oddly flat and distant, as things often appeared after a long, hard-fought battle when training and adrenaline were the only things keeping her on her feet. Killeen pushed the fatigue away, nerves thrumming with the need to _do something_ , focused her mind on the task at hand. _Find Aveline. Find out how we’re going to get Jean back_.

 

The Guard Captain was in her office, with Donnic and several other Sergeants. “We’ll try it —” Aveline stopped as Killeen came in the door. “Out,” she said crisply.

 

Killeen didn’t move. “Fraser says you have a lead.”

 

Aveline straightened. “ _We_ do. Guard business.”

 

“ _My_ sister,” Killeen said.

 

“ _My_ Guard!” Aveline snapped. “Flames, Killeen, if you think I’ll have you with a stone’s throw of any of our operations after that stunt you pulled in Darktown, you are even crazier than you’ve been acting!”

 

 _Fair_ , Killeen thought. “I’ll follow your orders, this time.”

 

“No you won’t,” Aveline said. “You’ll do whatever you take it into your head to do, like you did at Madame de Folette’s, like you did at Tisa Millar’s.”

 

“Captain, _please_ —”

 

“I am _not_ your Captain and this is _not_ your business!” Aveline said. “You are a civilian _guest_ in my city and if you don’t take yourself out of my office _right now_ you’ll find yourself hosted in the cells!”

 

“You wouldn’t —”

 

Aveline’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t I? Just watch me.”

 

 _She would, too_ , Killeen thought. She knew that look on the Guard Captain’s face, Aveline with a stick up her arse and a bee in her bonnet. Wise Guards gave their Captain a wide berth when she wore that expression. “All right,” she conceded. “Will you at least tell me what you know?”

 

Aveline considered, and then nodded. “Place belongs to one Gregor Thompkinson. You might remember him —”

 

“Remember him, I _arrested_ him,” Killeen said. “Roughed up one of the girls at the _Rose_ , didn’t he?”

 

“That’s right,” Aveline confirmed. “A couple of other complaints from some other brothels over the years, nothing came of them. Then he made a mountain of money during the repairs — he cornered the market on straw, of all things, if you can believe it.”

 

“Straw?” Killeen was puzzled.

 

“You know, what you can’t make bricks out of,” Aveline said. “Bought himself a nice estate at a bargain price when Lord Norrell decided Kirkwall was all too exciting for him and his Lady, and dropped out of sight as far as we were concerned.”

 

“Because instead of beating on whores …” Killeen said grimly, and Aveline nodded.

 

“Seems so.” She paused. “There’s more. I’ve had a look at the gate records and the reports from the watchpost out that way. It seems as if every now and again he brings in a group of women, and then a little while later has a sudden flurry of visitors from in and out of town. Wagons of supplies going out in that direction too.”

 

“Guests,” Killeen said. “With similar tastes.”

 

“Yes,” Aveline said. “But listen, Killeen, that’s good news. If your sister was in that carriage, Thompkinson’s friends haven’t arrived yet. She’s probably safe until they do.”

 

“Then we have time to get her out,” Killeen said, and at the look on Aveline’s face, corrected herself. “You have time to get her out.”

 

“Yes. When we can figure out how. I’ve got the place watched, I’ve sent orders to the watchpost and the gate to let me know the second they see anything that fits the pattern. Thompkinson’s staff live in, but if we can find a family member to lean on … or if Madame de Folette turns up anywhere …”

 

“That’s thin,” Killeen said.

 

“Unless you have a trebuchet up your sleeve, we need the gate and the door beyond it _open_ ,” Aveline said.

 

“Substitute one of the wagons of supplies,” Killeen suggested.

 

“Thank you for explaining the obvious,” Aveline said very dryly, and Killeen flushed, muttered an apology. “Look. I _will_ let you know when there’s anything _to_ know. But _do not_ take it into your head to go out there and kick the door down.”

 

“I won’t,” Killeen said honestly. _For one thing, if he’s not killed them yet, he might well decide to get rid of any witnesses in the time it took me to fight my way through whatever he has in the way of guards._

 

“Good,” Aveline said. “Now get out.”

 

Such was the authority in Aveline’s tone, and Killeen’s own well-drilled reaction to it, that she found herself in the corridor without thinking about it.

 

 _More waiting_ , she thought, making her way back down to the _Hanged Man_.

 

More waiting, and more hours stuck with the screaming child. Her nerves twitched at both thoughts. At least the long weeks of preparation at Skyhold had been filled with activity, but here …

 

For a moment, she entertained the thought of taking Thomas and taking ship back to Ferelden, of leaving Jean’s rescue to Aveline, depositing Thomas with her parents in Denerim, and getting back to her life.

 

 _And back to Cullen_ , because if she was honest, that was no small part of the attraction of the idea. Maker, how she missed him! Ached for his touch, yes, but more than that, ached to hear his voice, to find a way to make him laugh, to watch him frowning in concentration while he trimmed a quill, to pick up her tea knowing there’d be just the right amount of honey in it …

 

Longing washed over her like a wave, her throat swelling painfully, her eyes burning. How long would she have to wait here, alone in Kirkwall, alone with memories and fears and the unending wailing of a child that might not, for all she knew, even be her nephew?

 

And that, of course, was why she couldn’t simply abandon the city. _What if mother takes one look at him and announces that he isn’t her grandson? What if Thomas is somewhere else in Kirkwall, if that baby has some other family looking for him?_

She gritted her teeth, pushed the thought of Cullen away, pushed it down into the box in her head, forced the idea of leaving the city down beside it, used all her strength to get the box closed. Slowly, her throat stopped aching, the threat of tears receded.

 

If she had to wait, she’d wait.

 

She had, after all, always been good at doing what had to be done.


	42. In One Room - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a baby cries.

_22nd - 25th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

When Killeen got back to the Hanged Man, Fraser handed the baby back to her with alacrity.

 

“I’m going to clean up,” he said, stepping out into the corridor. “And maybe go and —”

 

“Fraser, wait —” Killeen said, remembering that at this time of day Alistair was probably sleeping off the previous night’s excesses. She started to follow him.

 

“I’ll see you later,” Fraser said from halfway down the hall, opened the door to his room and stopped.

 

“That’s Alistair,” Killeen said. “They didn’t have another room free.”

 

“Who is he?” Fraser asked.

 

“He’s —” Killeen paused. She hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with the drunken ex-Templar since she’d brought him to the inn, what with her preoccupation with finding a ways to quiet the baby and Alistair’s evident determination to drink his way to an early grave as quickly as possible. “I don’t know, actually. But he helped me out, and he needed somewhere to sleep.” She paused. “You can share.”

 

Fraser gave her a look that let her know he wasn’t happy with the arrangement — _and I don’t blame him,_ Killeen thought, _only a fool would rest easy sharing a room with a stranger, especially in Kirkwall._ “I’ll share with him,” she said.

 

Fraser shook his head. “I’ve no wish to hear what Commander Cullen would say if I let _that_ happen.”

 

“Fraser, he’s drunk insensible most of the time and I’m not about to ravish him with a screaming child in the room,” Killeen snapped.

 

“I didn’t think _that_ ,” Fraser said. “What if he decides to cut your throat and steal your purse while you sleep?”

 

“Maker’s balls, I can’t throw him out on the street!” The baby set up a fresh wail at Killeen’s tone, and she swore. “Now look what you’ve done!”

 

“ _Me_?” Fraser said, and then took a look at her face. “Uh — sorry. I’ll … keep an eye on whoever-he-is for you.”

 

“You do that,” Killeen said tersely, and took the screaming child back to her room.

 

She had firm resolutions to spend some time over the next days talking to Alistair, finding out a little more about him — but that night the baby boy outdid himself, refusing to quiet or to be consoled. Killeen tried everything, in increasing desperation — fed him even though he didn’t seem hungry, changed him even though he was clean, paced back and forth across the floor with him, even tried singing to him, although the only songs she could bring to mind were more suitable to the bar below than an infant’s ears.

 

When eventually he slept, close to dawn — _likely out of sheer exhaustion_ , Killeen thought — she was so tired she sat down on the floor by the bed where she’d laid him, leaned her head on the blankets and fell instantly asleep herself.

 

Only to be roused in the faint rosy glow of sunrise to another series of wails.

 

Groaning, she got to her feet and picked up the baby. A knock at the door startled her, and made the child cry harder.

 

It was the bar-tender, and from the look of his face he’d had no better night’s sleep himself. “I can’t be having this,” he said. “You’ve kept the whole place awake all night. You’ll have to go.”

 

“I’m paid up until —” Killeen protested.

 

He shook his head. “I’ll refund it. This is not a nursery, woman, it’s a tavern. People come here to get _away_ from screaming children.”

 

“Where am I going to find another room?” Killeen demanded. “Some flea-pit in Lowtown? I can’t take him there!”

 

“You can’t stay here.”

 

“Give me until tomorrow,” Killeen bargained. “And you can keep the refund.”

 

A moment’s hesitation, while she held her breath, and then the bar-keep nodded. “All right. Until tomorrow — but no longer.”

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said between gritted teeth.

 

She went down the hall and hammered on Fraser’s door until he opened it. “You’ve got until tomorrow to find us other rooms,” she said.

 

He blinked, and then nodded, wincing as the baby set up an especially piercing wail. “You should feed him,” he suggested. “He sounds hungry.”

 

Only the fact that her arms were full of screaming, squirming infant kept Killeen from breaking his nose.

 

She _did_ try feeding the baby, changing the baby — the same things she’d tried during the long night, with the same result. By the end of the day, her eyes felt like they were full of sand or grit, every blink painful. Every howl from the baby wound her nerves tighter and tighter, and her growing conviction that there was something seriously wrong with the child had her on the edge of a panic she had to use every soldier’s trick she knew to suppress. She laid him on the bed and stripped him bare, checking every inch of his skin for marks or insect bites, found nothing but a few fleas. He flailed his arms and legs reassuringly energetically, and consented to eat a little in between wails. His dirty clouts were, as far Killeen could tell, as they usually were.

 

And still he screamed, only occasionally crying himself into an exhausted doze to wake soon after with a fresh set of wails.

 

Fraser came back to report he’d found a single room in an inn Killeen recognised from her days in the Guard as a flea-ridden fire-trap where rooms were often rented by the hour. Her heart sank at the thought of taking possibly-Thomas there and for a moment she thought she was going to embarrass herself by bursting into tears in front of Fraser.

 

“Thank you,” she said curtly, and shut the door in his face. Leaning back against it, she took great gulping breaths of the stale air in the room until the urge to weep subsided. “It’ll be all right,” she promised the baby. “I’ll take care of you. It won’t be pleasant but it’s better than the street, right?”

 

By his howls, the baby was not convinced.

 

The night wore on, no better than the previous one. Killeen began to feel as if she had always been, would always be, in this room, walking back and forth and trying to remember the words to _Every Nug Has His Day._ In the strange, dream-like state of sleep deprivation, it seemed entirely believable that the rest of the world had ceased to exist, or perhaps had never existed: that Skyhold, and the Inquisition, and Cullen, were nothing but illusions of the Fade.

 

 _He’s never going to stop crying_ , she realised as the sound of gulls outside and the lifting breeze presaged the morning’s tide. _He’s going to cry forever. Forever and ever and ever and …._

 

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” she begged the baby. “Or signal. I know you can’t talk. Give me some sort of signal. Does your head hurt? Is it your stomach?” She set the child down on the bed again and checked him once more for injuries, bruises, _anything_ that would explain what was wrong with him. _Nothing_.

 

Her head swam as she straightened up, and she had to lean on the edge of the bed. The infant gazed up at her and howled.

“Just tell me what’s wrong!” Killeen said desperately, hardly able to hear her own ragged voice over the baby’s wails. “Just tell me! I can’t fix it until you tell me!” She realised she was shouting.. “Tell me! For the Maker’s fucking sake! Just _tell_ —”

 

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned fast, reaching for the sword —

 

Which was leaning against the wall.


	43. Between The Twins - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen comes to Kirkwall

_25 Kingsway_

* * *

 

The galleon came in on the pre-dawn tide, the creak of sails and shouts of sailors loud in the harbour’s slumbering quiet, the splash of the oars of the rowboat bringing out the pilot echoing across the water.

 

The Wall was as grim, the Twins as intimidating, as Cullen remembered, although neither the children, nor Mia, seemed to find them more than an impressive feat of engineering. _But then_ , he thought, **_I_** _know what lies beyond them._

Knew, too, what _had_ lain beyond them, for all too long.

 

And there, across the water, the Gallows, home and prison both for a decade, for him, for all the other Templars, for so many mages.

 

_For too many Tranquil._

 

The day he had learned the truth — _no_. That was dishonest. _The day I was forced to admit the truth._

 

In the bloody aftermath of that final battle, stunned by the revelation of the extent of Meredith’s madness, numb with exhaustion, Cullen had not objected when the Champion had sheathed her sword and turned toward the doorway that led to Meredith’s quarters and office.

 

_Hawke’s face is grim.“Let’s see what’s really been going on here.”_

_Cullen follows, not thinking about the impropriety of an outsider, a mage sympathiser, rifling through the Knight-Commander’s belongings and papers, not thinking about the fact that very same Knight-Commander is now a statue of red lyrium in the Gallows courtyard, not thinking about the fact that he has faced and fought and killed members of his own order, men and women under his command: not thinking about anything at all._

_He stands silently as the Champion searches with the speed and efficiency of long practice, leafing through papers, emptying drawers. She finds the great leather-bound book in which Meredith recorded the decisions she made concerning the disposition of mages who broke the rules, runs her finger down the pages, frown growing deeper and deeper at each page._

_When she finally looks up, the fury and contempt in the look she directs at him is almost sharp enough to pierce the fog that clouds his mind. “And you_ never _thought to question this? All these —_ all _these — mages with their minds burned out — for what?”_

_Vaguely, Cullen remembers that the Champion’s sister is a mage in this very Circle. Bethany Hawke is safe: Cullen has been careful to make sure of it, if only because he knew how bad an enemy the Champion would make, even if Meredith had failed to grasp the fact until too late. It had not been all that difficult to keep Bethany from Meredith’s wrath, either: Bethany is as clever as her sister, the determination and discipline that has seen the Champion carve a path through Kirkwall like a Carta knife through a leather breastplate has been, in Bethany’s case, turned to surviving the Gallows with mind and soul intact._

_“Not your sister,” he says at last, the words thick and heavy in his mouth._

_“You think that makes it all right?” Hawke moves across the room, yanks open more drawers. Another ledger in her hands, she turns to him again. “What’s this?” Opening the book, she answers her own question. “Lineages. Why is Ostwick or Markham written next to these names?”_

_“Mage children,” Cullen explains. “They’re sent away, to another Circle, for safety.”_

_The Champion fans a thick wad of pages under the thumb. “Randy bunch, Kirkwall mages, it seems.” Then her gaze sharpens, and she turns pages more slowly. After a moment she strides back to Meredith’s desk, slams the ledger down on it beside the first book she’d found, turns pages, looking from one to the other. Finds what she’s looking for, breathes a curse. “Look at this,” she says softly, and when Cullen’s slow to move, Hawke’s voice cracks like a whip. “Fucking_ look _at this, Cullen.”_

_He looks. A mage child, born to Marit Saldin and Vartan Stearn. There is something wrong with the names, but Cullen doesn’t understand what it is._

_“Stearn’s one of_ yours _, Cullen,” Hawke says. “A Templar.”_

_“Such liaisons are forbidden,” Cullen says. “However, they happen.”_

_Hawke is still utterly, coldly furious. “And poor Marit is one of_ these.” _She slaps her hand down on the book holding the record of Meredith’s disciplinary decisions._

_“If she corrupted a Templar…” Cullen starts, and Hawke snarls at him._

_“Look at the date, Cullen. Look at the fucking date!”_

_He does. Marit Saldin, sentenced to Tranquillity, 9 Solace, 8434 Dragon. Son born to Marit Saldin and Vartan Stearn, 22 Justinian 8435 Dragon._

_It can’t be right. The Tranquil are without emotion, without desire. Mages, like any men and women, are prone to infatuation, even to love, or simple lust, and hence the necessity of procedures for the inevitable mage children … but Tranquil? The dates can’t be right._

_And then he understands, utterly, irrevocably, beyond any possibility of denial, that they_ are _right._

_Marit Saldin, sentenced to Tranquillity for corrupting a Templar … Cullen can remember her, now, on her knees, before Meredith, sobbing, begging for mercy. Swearing on every sacred thing she could imagine that she had said_ no _._

_Cullen had believed her. It had not been the fear in her voice that convinced him — all mages fear Tranquillity — but the fact that he could detect in her ragged, broken voice not a hint of guilt._

_Only shame._

Maker, no, leave me alone, _and her hands and lips and —_

 

_He’d protested Meredith’s sentence._

_He’d acquiesced when he was overruled._

_And … the evidence is there before him. Marit had borne the child of the man she’d accused. Not eight months after her sentence was carried out, or seven, or five …_

_Eleven months after the lyrium brand was seared onto her forehead, Marit Saldin had given birth to a son._

_A son who could only have been conceived after she had been made Tranquil._

_The Champion finds more — sons and daughters of Vartan Stearn, of other Templars, babies whose mothers’ names are recorded in Meredith’s other book as well. The stories the dates and names tell, that his own memory supplies, are not identical, are all too similar —_

_“I should have burned this place to the ground years ago,” Hawke says, and stalks out._

_Cullen follows her — or at least, he leaves the room after her:_ follow _suggests more initiative than he is capable of right now._

_The rumours had been true. The stories had been real._

_With the evidence before him he can now see all the little signs, the half-heard comments, this Templar or that being somewhere they had no business to be … can see_ now _what they add up to —_

_Except that is a lie._

_He could see_ then _._

_He_ had _seen then, and chosen not to notice._

 

_The smoldering rubble, the broken statues, the glowing lyrium Meredith, all seem very far away, as far away as the pale grey morning sky, as far away as he himself is. Shapes move around him — carrying away the dead, making some effort to restore order — Cullen knows he should take charge, he is the highest in rank, he should —_

_It is all very far away._

_He is very, very far away._

Burn it to the ground _, he thinks,_ like the Champion said _. The Gallows, the Order, himself — none of them worth saving, not after what’s happened, what’s been **done**. _

_A voice is calling his name. A woman, lines of fatigue carved deep in her face, long scars slashing down from her forehead to cross her cheek — he knows her, he thinks. She wants Meredith, wants someone in authority in the Templars, and that, Cullen thinks, is probably him, it it’s anyone. There is probably someone better, somewhere in the Gallows, some trainee or novice not there long enough to have been tainted by either by the culture Meredith allowed or by the tacit acceptance of that culture for which Cullen himself has been, he realises now, the role model._

_He is walking, up through the streets of Lowtown, through the rain that sleets down into his face, sends icy rivulets under his collar, soaks his hair._

_The woman is walking with him, until she isn’t. He stops._

_She has fallen, on the slick cobblestones, falls again trying to get up. Curses tumble from her lips,_ Andraste’s frilly knickers, Maker’s geriatric truss _—_

_And he knows them, those turns of phrase, and as she mutters that_ you never have a fucking military disaster in full sunlight _he knows **her**_ **,** _because while there might be other women in Kirkwall who’d come up with_ Andraste’s nipple tassells _he doubts there’s anyone else who’d think the worst thing about last night was the weather, anyone else but Killeen Hanmount_.

 

_He has not, until now, considered what must have been happening in the rest of the city; he has not, until now, considered the inevitable causalities in the Guard. And yet he is as relieved that she lives as if he had been fretting over it since sunset._

_And he is not far away from anything anymore, he is cold, and wet, and aching in every muscle and every bone, and Killeen is trying for a third time to get to her feet._

_Since that night, the night when he said something — or **did** something — that caused her to wear a smooth, blank expression whenever they met, to avoid him when she could, they have barely exchanged a dozen words besides the most superficial of greetings, but as he hauls her to her feet — perhaps because she is so tired, perhaps because he is, she looks at him through the rain running down her face as if he is, once more, someone she knows._

_When he asks her how long it is since she rested she pretends to give the question serious consideration, as she props herself exhaustedly against the wall, and then asks quite gravely what year it is._

_It is obscene that he can find anything amusing, even slightly, after what he has learned in Meredith’s office, but he does. And somehow, that spark of humour strikes a light in the cold, dead ashes inside him._

_None of it might be worth saving, himself included, but there are things the Templars can do — that perhaps_ only _Templars can do — that will need to be done, if what is left of Kirkwall is to be saved, if there is to be any chance of a life ahead for this city and its inhabitants and for the woman in front of him who has fought until she can barely stand and is still, somehow, cracking wise and complaining about the weather._

_And so he finds himself in Guard Captain Aveline’s office, making an argument he doesn’t entirely believe, that the Templars can be redeemed, to a coldly furious Aveline who, it is soon clear, has been listening to the stories coming from the Gallows without Cullen’s own predilection for selective ignorance._

_He remembers for a minute just what he has been selectively ignorant_ to _and loses the thread of the conversation, grasps for it again as sweat beads his forehead and_ do you like this? How about this? —

 

_Cullen can’t persuade Aveline and — he has to. Because if the Templar Order can be redeemed, then the surviving Templars can be redeemed._

_And if it cannot, then_ they _cannot._

_He cannot._

_And he doesn’t have the words to persuade this woman who holds his future in her hands to give them, him, one more chance, one more undeserved, desperately longed for, chance._

_It’s Killeen who rescues him, who gets Aveline’s agreement, and on impulse he asks for a liaison between the Templars and the Guard, asks for Killeen. If he can do this, and he is still not sure he can, then he can only do it with the help of the woman who was the only thing in Kirkwall this morning that he recognised._

_In the corridor outside Aveline’s office, Killeen reaches for the wall to support herself, face grey, misses it — he grips her arm before she falls, holds her upright with his body between her and any curious eyes._

_Is taken utterly by surprise when she asks him if he’s all right. As if he has any right to be_ all right _, after what he’s done, as if he has any right for anyone to care if he_ is _, especially Killeen._

_And yet she does — there’s nothing but kindness in her eyes as she looks at him, despite the exhaustion that pinches her face._

_He could stand there forever, looking at her looking at him, despite how tired he is, despite how much work lies ahead, work he has no idea how and where to start … but she is all but asleep on her feet._

_And he will see her again, will see her every day — and perhaps it is not just that they have both been through a night of blood and fire such as even Kirkwall has never seen, perhaps she will still look at him as she used to, before …_

_He hopes for it._

_Not until he is back on his way down to the Gallows does he realise it is the first thing he has hoped for in a very long time._

“Ser Bear! Ser Bear!” Fel hopped from one foot to the other in front of him, clutching Ser Calenhad. Cullen realised she had been trying to attract his attention for some time. “Can we go ashore?”

 

The ship was moored, the gangplank in place. Already, the cargo hatches were open and Krem and Rocky were sliding into the hold to begin the tricky task of fitting and fastening the belly-slings that would hoist the horses to the deck.

 

“Yes,” Cullen told Fel, “in a moment. I must make some arrangements with the Bull, first.”

 

The big Qunari was leaning on the rail, looking out at the city. “Never been here,” he grunted as Cullen joined him. “Never wanted to.”

 

“Bit of a shithole,” Dorian said from the Bull’s other side.

 

“We’ll need somewhere to stay,” Cullen said. “Unless accommodation has improved substantially in the past year or so, we’re unlikely to find any inn or tavern that can take all of us, and stable the horses. And I’d much prefer not to divide our forces.”

 

The Bull nodded. “Well, usually, in this situation, I’d find some rich bastard with a big house and threaten him until he accepted us as house guests,” he said, “but I take it that’s not your preferred approach.”

 

Cullen let out a breath of a laugh. “Let’s not give Lady Montilyet too much to deal with,” he said. “I’m going up to the Keep — it’s likely the Captain of the Guard will know where Killeen and Fraser are. I’ll ask her if she knows of any properties to rent. Can you lend me one of the Chargers as a runner, if I do secure one?”

 

“Bags me,” Dorian said promptly. “Getting as far away from all this … _water_ as soon as possible is very high on my list of priorities just at the moment.”

 

“Didn’t the potion Stitches gave you help?” the Bull asked.

 

“If you mean, did it stop me hanging over the rail every fifteen minutes, yes,” Dorian said. “If you mean, did it stop me from feeling as if I _wanted_ to, then no.”

 

“Take Grim as well, then,” the Bull said to Cullen. “You’ll need someone to chase after that kid every time she sees something interesting.”

 

“Bags _not_ me for that,” Dorian said.

 

And so it was a small but substantial party that made its way ashore: Cullen, Mia, Fel and Stanton, with Dorian and Grim.

 

And Ser Calenhad, of course.

 

Mindful of the Bull’s words, Cullen kept a firm grip on Fel’s shoulder as they navigated Lowtown’s twisting streets. Mia likewise drew Stanton closer to her, though whether it was for _his_ protection or _her_ comfort Cullen was not sure. Dorian strode confidently ahead, expecting the crowds to part for him, and largely ensuring they did through sheer force of personality and the occasional application of concentrated charm; Grim brought up the rear, watching — when Cullen glanced back occasionally — everyone around them with deep suspicion.

 

Hightown was, as always, less crowded. Cullen noted the buildings with pale, new stone or brick as they passed, token of repairs far more advanced here than in Lowtown.

 

All too soon for his comfort, they reached the Keep.


	44. In The Keep - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen finds accommodation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a little slower this week than usual ... I may have been playing the Jaws of Hakkon download *shifty look*.

_25 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

Cullen turned to Mia. “I should speak to the Guard Captain alone,” he said. “Dorian and Grim will be with you.”

 

Mia looked around at the well-swept courtyard, the Guards clattering in or out of the Keep’s great doors. “I think we’ll be fine, Cullen,” she said.

 

Not without misgiving — and an extra word to Fel to stay with the adults — Cullen went up the steps and into the Keep.

 

He had been in the Keep, of course, although not as a daily routine. Still, it was all too familiar, his footsteps echoed back by the cool stone walls, the murmur of voices from rooms he passed, the occasional clearly heard word that told of games of cards or dice. As he passed a group of Guards coming off duty, he caught, faintly, _but do they call me Dick the farmer, no,_ and smiled, Killeen’s best joke still doing the rounds of the Kirkwall Guard.

 

Enquiring, he was told that Aveline was in her office, and headed that way.

 

In fact, she was just leaving her office. Seeing him, she checked her stride, briefly, then invited him to walk with her with a motion of her head. “This must be visit-old-disaster-zones week,” she said as he fell into step beside her. “All I need now is for Hawke to come strolling in.”

 

“You’ve seen Killeen, I take it,” Cullen said.

 

Aveline snorted. “Seen, heard, been tempted to arrest. And I’m well, thank you for asking, and Kirkwall’s still here despite everything, also thank you for asking, and the new Knight-Commander is learning to tell his elbow from his earlobe finally.”

 

“I’m glad,” Cullen said. “Of all three. How is Killeen? Where is she staying?”

 

“At the _Hanged Man_ ,” Aveline said. “And she was in one piece last time I saw her, undeservedly so. Flames, Cullen! What _happened_ to her after you lured her out of the Guard?”

 

“I didn’t _lure_ her,” Cullen objected. “And it’s been a hard year for all of us.”

 

“She mentioned the dragon,” Aveline said dryly. “You know about her sister?”

 

“Jean,” Cullen said. “Yes.”

 

“We think she’s being held at one of the estates outside Kirkwall.” Aveline paused as a sergeant offered her a clipboard, studied the text and thrust it back, nodding. “We’re working on a plan for entry. I told Killeen I’d send word when we had a result. You’ll be at the _Hanged Man_ as well?”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “I’ve got a small company with me. We’ll need more extensive quarters than the _Hanged Man_ can provide.”

 

“In Kirkwall?” Aveline said incredulously.

 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I hoped you could assist us.”

 

Aveline stopped, hands on hips. “What am I, the visitor’s guidebook? Has it occurred to any of you that Kirkwall didn’t instantly subside into a condition of peace and prosperity when you walked up the gangplank? That I might actually have things to do beside pulling your collective fundaments out of assorted fires?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Varric Tethras has kept us appraised of the state of things here — when there was time, in between defeating an ancient evil, closing a hole in the sky that led straight into the Fade, and ridding the countryside of assorted demons, apostate mages, rogue Templars and opportunistic bandits. You’re welcome — and I need secure lodging for a dozen people, with horses.”

 

“Well,” Aveline said grudgingly. “That hole in the sky was unpleasant, I’ll give you that. But I’m no mage, to conjure lodgings out of thin air. Too many buildings are still uninhabitable — what’s left is cheek-by-jowl.” She paused. “But I don’t much want you camping on my doorstep, either. The Hawke Estate is still vacant, since she had the sense to pay her taxes in advance before making a timely exit. I have a key in my office — I’ll send a runner with it to meet you there. Of course …” Aveline smiled a little. “If she is the next one of Kirkwall’s strays to come home, you’ll have some explaining to do.”

 

“I’ll take my chances,” Cullen said. “Thank you.”

 

“Thank me by keeping Killeen out from under my feet,” Aveline said. She turned to stride away, then glanced back. “And Cullen — you’re looking well. I’m glad to see it.”

 

She was gone before Cullen had framed a reply.

 

He conveyed the news to the others, and then led the way to the Champion’s old home.

 

It was a little more run-down than he remembered, the ivy spreading enthusiastically over the walls and obscuring the arrow-slit windows that were mandatory for any Kirkwall residents with anything worth defending. The Champion’s name obviously still carried a weight of fear, though: there were no signs of any attempted break-in.

 

“Is this our house now?” Fel asked.

 

“We’re borrowing it, while we stay,” Cullen told her. “From a very important person — the Champion of Kirkwall.”

 

“Is it true she killed a hundred Qunari single-handed?” Stanton asked. “That’s what it says in the ballad.”

 

“I think not quite a hundred,” Cullen said. “And she had help — she had friends and staunch allies by her side. Even great warriors need a shield at their shoulder and someone to watch their blind-spots.”

 

“Like you have Kill,” Fel said. “Are we going to get her when they bring the key?”

 

“I will,” Cullen said, and as she started to pout: “The house will no doubt need setting to rights after being closed up so long. I’m relying on my squire to make sure my room is prepared.”

 

Fel straightened her shoulders and puffed out her skinny little chest a little. “Of course, ser!”

 

 _Stanton, too, should have his own responsibility._ “Stanton, I’ll rely on you to determine what provisions we’ll need.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Stanton said gravely.

 

“And _I_ shall see to the appointments,” Dorian said. “One shudders to think what passes for good taste in Kirkwall.”

 

“Just don’t use magic to do it,” Cullen cautioned. “People are … touchy about it here.”

 

“Only the tiniest smidgen,” Dorian assured him airily.

 

Cullen eyed him with trepidation, but any response he might have made was cut off by the arrival of a Guard with Aveline’s key.

 

Not having been inside the Hawke Estate more than a few times, Cullen had forgotten how imposing it was in both scale and opulence. A thick layer of dust lay over everything, muting the rich reds and pinks which Dorian inspected with a curled lip and a muttered _how tacky._

 

Leaving Grim to guard Mia and the children, Cullen and Dorian went through every room, downstairs and up, but found nothing more threatening than a nest of rats in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Leaving Dorian to deal with them, Cullen went back to the foyer.

 

“It’s all clear,” he said. “I’ll pass word, and directions here, to the Bull on my way to the _Hanged Man._ They may beat me back here, but Killeen and I won’t be far behind.”

 

“We’ll make a start on cleaning out some of this dust,” Mia said. “And start a meal when the rest of the Chargers — and our provisions — get here.”

 

“You are quite safe here,” Cullen assured her. “Just … don’t unlock the door. If anyone knocks, let Grim and Dorian answer it.”

 

“Is Kirkwall really so dangerous as that?” Mia asked. “People seemed quite pleasant, on the street.”

 

Cullen took her shoulder and turned her toward the front of the house, pointing to the embrasures which narrowed to slits. “See the shape of those windows? That is so archers on the inside can fire on besiegers without exposing themselves to return fire. They are generally seen in castles, and fortifications. In Kirkwall, they’re a standard design feature.”

 

“I see,” Mia said.

 

“You’re quite safe,” Cullen said again. “With the door locked.”

 

When he left, he heard the lock snick shut behind him, and for good measure, the bars shot home.

 

He found himself walking more and more quickly on his return jounrey to the docks, at times all but breaking into a run. Knowing where Killeen was, knowing how close she was — it took iron self-control not to turn left to the _Hanged Man_ but to keep on toward the docks.

 

The horses had been disembarked, the company’s baggage unloaded; Cullen gave the Bull directions to the Hawke Estate, sketched a map in the dirt of the dockside road.

 

As soon as he was certain the Bull had grasped it, he was on his way to the _Hanged Man_ , to Killeen.

 

The tavern hadn’t changed at all in the year of his absence from Kirkwall. In fact, Cullen recognised one or two scars on the doorframe as having been inflicted the last time he’d been here —

 

_A fist pounding on the door of his quarters. “Knight Commander! Knight Commander!”_

_A problem worth waking the Knight Commander at — Cullen casts a glance at the angle of the moonlight streaming through his open window — well past last watch is unquestionably an emergency. Cullen calls permission to enter and is on his feet shrugging into his arming doublet before the door opens._ Abominations, apostates … something more mundane but just as deadly such as a fire or the collapse of one of Kirkwall’s damaged and yet-to-be-repaired buildings …

_“Ser — sorry, ser —” The messenger is breathless and panicked and in the seconds it takes him to gasp for breath Cullen realises that he hears no alarm bells — realises that there are other reasons why he, Cullen Rutherford, would be summoned._

Something has happened to the Guard Captain _, he thinks, and then, ice-cold finger of fear touching his heart,_ or to Killeen.

 

_“Speak, man!” he demands. “Is it the Guard Captain?”_

_The messenger shakes his head. “Lieutenant Hanmount,” he gasps. “Captain says you’d better come.”_

_He will not need the armour — he doesn’t have time for it — he belts on his sword. “Where?”_

_“The_ Hanged Man _.”_

_“How bad?” Cullen asks in his way out the door._

_“Pretty bad.”_

_Cullen breaks into a run and the exhausted messenger drops back._

_Startled faces at the gate at the sight of the Knight Commander on his way out in shirt and breeches. Kirkwall’s Templars are well-trained, though — and_ differently _trained, in these new times, not just the wardens of mages and hammer of maleficar but another arm of Kirkwall’s decimated law enforcement. By the time Cullen has pounded down the stairs and started along the long walkway toward the docks he can hear the heavy footsteps of armoured men behind him._

_Good sense dictates he slow and allow them to overtake him._

Lieutenant Hanmount. Pretty bad.

_Cullen doesn’t slow. By the time he reaches the_ Hanged Man _he has well and truly outdistanced his would-be guards. Bursting through the door, he expects the bloody aftermath of a brawl, expects Guards, grim silence —_

_A wave of noise hits him, voices raised in shouts of laughter and some of anger. The common room is thronged, the backs of people in front of him preventing any clear view of what’s going on. Cullen shoulders his way through the crowd with brutal efficiency and little concern for the well-being of those obstructing him._

_He sees Aveline and makes his way to her._

_“Thank the Maker you’re here,” she shouts over the noise. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”_

_She points, and Cullen turns to look._

_The pirate captain Isabela and Killeen are back-to-back in the circle of a group of cheering onlookers, fists raised, defending themselves against three assailants who, by their muscles and tattoos, are crew off one of the ships in the harbour. As Cullen watches, Killeen knocks one senseless with a clean right-cross, to the cheers and jeers from the audience. He sees Varric Tethras standing on the bar, taking coins from some, paying out to others._ Running a book _._

_“Maker’s breath, Captain,” he says to Aveline. “Your messenger said … there was some sort of trouble.”_

_Aveline glances around the room, the avid faces, the money changing hands — the rising tension in the air. “You don’t call this trouble?”_

 

 _Considering it, Cullen can see her point._ It wouldn’t take much for this to turn into an all in brawl.

 

 _“I’ll handle Isabela,” Aveline tells him. “Get your_ liaison _out of here.”_

_Together, they push through the ring of onlookers. A few are reluctant to give ground, but most know Aveline by sight, many recognise Cullen — and for those who don’t, the two of them together are an intimidating enough sight to give even the most drunken bravo pause._

_“Killeen!” Cullen shouts, and she turns, grinning._

_“Come to try your luck?” she says, and_ Maker _, she’s well and truly drunk by the flush to her cheeks and the glassiness in her eyes. “A farewell spar?”_

_He raises his hands as if accepting her invitation and she swings at him. Even drunk, she’s fast, but when they’re both sober Cullen is almost as fast as she is. Right now, unhindered by either armour or alcohol, he has no trouble slipping the blow, grabbing her arm and jerking her around to seize her around the waist and lift her clear of the floor._

_He hauls her to the door, clearing a path for them with a glare and a snarl. She’s in full gear, and her struggles leave bruises, one nail-soled boot gouging splinters from the door-frame. The Templars who followed him from the Gallows are outside, panting._

_A couple start to move forward, and Cullen snaps, “I’ve got her,” hoists Killeen over his shoulder and carries her, kicking and cursing, further down the street to the relative privacy of the courtyard._

_“Put me the fuck down!” she rages._

_“Are you going to try and hit me again?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“Then no,” Cullen says._

 

_Surprising him, Killeen laughs at that. “Fair,” she concedes, and stops struggling._

_Cullen sets her down on her feet, steadies her as she sways until she stumbles away from him and fetches up against the wall._

_“Are you all right?” he asks._

_Killeen laughs again, but this time it’s humourless. “Fine,” she says. “Fucking fine.”_

_But she’ s_ not _fine. In the three years they’ve worked side by side to establish some sort of order in what is left of Kirkwall, Cullen can count the number of times he’s seen Killeen drunk, really drunk, on the fingers of one hand._ After the day we found where the nest of maleficar in the west quarter of Darktown had buried their victims … the time the girls from the _Sweet Sugar_ finally decided enough was enough and reported Gregor Thompkinson, and we saw exactly what it took for Lowtown whores to report a paying client …

 

 _Killeen is not, is definitely not,_ fine. _“Kill …”_

_“Oh fuck off back to Ferelden,” she says tiredly, leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes._

_How Killeen knows the content of his discussions with Cassandra Pentaghast — but_ of course _she knows, Killeen has the ability to fall into easy conversation with anyone from a stable-boy to the Templar guards outside his office door and if there is something one of them knows, Killeen will know it too by nightfall. “Kill —”_

_Cullen can’t,_ won’t _, tell her the deepest reasons he’s considering Cassandra’s proposition. He doesn’t say_ I think this might be the only way I can shake these chains, _because Killeen doesn’t know he’s bound, and he can’t bear the idea of her realising how weak he is. Instead, he hears himself telling her about the Mage Rebellion, its origin in Kirkwall, the damage it’s doing._

_“Cullen,” Killeen says. “I —”_

_"Come with me." Where the words come from, he’s not sure, but they’re_ right _. "I have no idea what the Inquisition’s fighting forces will be like. I need at least one shield I can trust — and probably help getting the rest into shape.”_

_Killeen opens her eyes. In the moonlit shadows of the courtyard her face is unreadable._

_After a moment, she nods. “Yes,” she says._

_That’s all._

_That’s enough._

 

And the scars on the door-frame were still there, weathered now and not bright, new wood, but visible, to one who knew they were there.

 

Cullen brushed his fingers over them as he passed under the lintel.


	45. In The Hanged Man - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a reunion, under less-than-ideal circumstances

_25 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

The common room of the _Hanged Man_ hadn’t changed much — indeed, the most noticeable alteration was the absence of Varric Tethras from his usual corner. Despite the cool, clear autumn day outside, the tavern was still dimly-lit and over-heated, with the circles of light cast by scattered candles leaving patches of deep shadow in the corners and those customers here this early in the day were drinking with concentrated dedication.

 

Cullen crossed to the bar. About to ask _Is Killeen Hanmount here?_ he remembered Killeen’s long-ago advice on seeking information from Lowtown’s denizens. _Never give them an opportunity to lie,_ she’d said. _Because this is Kirkwall, and they will._

“Killeen Hanmount,” Cullen said instead. “Which room?”

 

The barkeep looked him up and down. “I know you,” he said after a moment. “Templar, aren’t you?”

 

“Used to be,” Cullen said, realising that this was likely only the first time he’d be recognised. _At least I never spent enough time in here for him to remember exactly who I was._ He turned the topic back to Killeen. “Which room?”

 

“Upstairs, third on the left.” The barkeep jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Just follow the screaming.”

 

 _Screaming?_ Cullen’s pulse picked up a little, and he turned and strode to the stairs. As he reached the top, he could hear what the barkeep had meant: an infant’s wails, steady and penetrating. _Thomas_. He’d assumed from Aveline’s words that Killeen’s nephew was in the same danger as his mother, but apparently not: the child, at least, was safely in Killeen’s care.

 

 _Safely, if not happily._ He raised his hand to knock, and heard Killeen’s voice from within, raised and cracking. “Just tell me what’s wrong!”

 

Cullen rapped on the door, but he could hardly hear the sound himself over the child’s howls. He tried the handle and the door opened.

 

The room was as small and cramped as most in the city’s inns and boarding houses, stale and un-aired. Killeen’s back was to the door — and Maker, even if she hadn’t been wearing Master Harritt’s fine mail, Cullen could never have mistaken her for anyone else, even without seeing her face, would have known the fall of her hair and the line of her shoulders instantly. Killeen stooped over the source of the wails, a plump and naked infant screaming at the top of his lungs, and shouted, “Just tell me! I can’t fix it until you tell me!”

 

“Killeen,” Cullen said, then louder, “ _Kill_.”

 

She clearly didn’t hear him. “Tell me!” she demanded of the child, her parade-ground bellow making the baby cry harder. “For the Maker’s fucking sake! Just _tell_ —”

 

Cullen took a step toward her and touched her shoulder. “Killeen.”

 

Killeen whirled instantly. Cullen sensed as much as saw the shift in her weight as she reached for her absent sword, and he was already taking a step back as her hands rose in fists, raising his own ready to block a blow. Her face was marked with weariness, mouth pinched with it, eyes shadowed. She swung, but Cullen saw the shock of recognition in her face as she did and she was already pulling the punch as he took it on an armoured forearm.

 

Then she was in his arms, fingers tangled in his hair, lips pressed to his in a kiss that was almost desperate in its hungry urgency. Cullen returned her embrace as fiercely, feeling the weight and solidity of her familiar body with a relief so keen it was almost pain, dizzied by the warmth of her mouth, her tongue thrusting against his. His cursed armour kept him from feeling her skin against his, but he could not bear to let her go long enough to even strip off a gauntlet, thinking only _at last, at last, at last …_

 

“How are you _here_?” Killeen said against his mouth. Cullen could hardly hear her and he realised Thomas was still screaming. Before he could answer Kill’s question, she pulled away a little. “I don’t care. Thank the Maker you are, though. Thank the Maker. I think he needs a healer — can you fetch one? I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he won’t stop crying, I can’t —”

 

She was trembling in his arms, rigid with tension. As the baby’s cries scraped his nerves, Cullen could understand why. “How long has he been crying?”

 

“Forever!” Killeen said. “I don’t know what’s wrong — I can’t find anything —”

 

“All right.” Cullen drew her close again. “If he’s ill, Stitches will know. Or Mia.”

 

“They’re _here_?” Killeen said incredulously.

 

“Did you get none of my letters?” Cullen asked. Killeen shook her head. “The Chargers are here, and Dorian, and Mia and my nephew. We’re staying at the Hawke estate — I came to fetch you.”

 

Killeen’s expression was uncomprehending, and then the baby wailed again and she twitched toward the bed. “He won't stop crying!" she said over the baby's howls. 

 

“It will be all right,” Cullen said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. He turned to the bed, one arm still around Killeen’s shoulders, and looked down at the baby. “He looks — and _sounds_ — healthy enough.”

 

Killeen bent and wrapped the baby up, then lifted him in her arms. “There’s something wrong,” she said. “He wouldn’t be crying like this if there wasn’t something wrong.” She looked down at the child. “Hush. Hush!”

 

“Stitches will know,” Cullen said. “Give him to me, get your things, and we’ll take Thomas to him.”

 

Killeen yielded the baby to him. “ I don’t even know he _is_ Thomas,” she said, belting her sword around her waist. “Just that he _could_ be.”

 

Cullen searched his memory for recollections of parents with infants at Haven, at Skyhold. He raised the baby a little, so the child’s head rested against the hollow of his shoulder, and patted the infant’s back gently.

 

Perhaps out of surprise, the child stopped screaming on an indrawn breath, and opened his eyes, staring up at Cullen: grey eyes, the colour of the sea beneath a winter sky, ringed with a deeper grey like a well-forged sword at twilight, fringed with lashes as black as soot. Cullen looked into that shockingly familiar gaze, and the child stared back, silent, unblinking.

 

Cullen’s breath stopped in his chest. “Of course —” He had to clear his throat. “Kill, he has your eyes.”

 

“What?” Killeen said distractedly, shoving her belongings into her pack.

 

“Exactly your eyes,” Cullen said. “He’s your nephew, Kill.”

 

As if in response to his words, Thomas arched his back and howled, face screwed up in outrage. Killeen flinched. “Let’s go. Oh — wait, Fraser — and there’s someone else, he helped me, I can’t leave him — he hasn’t anywhere, I mean, it’s his own fault — ”

 

Cullen couldn’t remember ever hearing calm and collected Killeen so agitated and distrait. “Where is Fraser?” he asked, making his voice calm, hoping it would calm Killeen in turn.

 

“Down the hall,” Killeen said, preoccupied with the baby. She held out her arms. “You’re holding him wrong. He doesn’t like that. Give him to me.”

 

Cullen surrendered Thomas to her, although it didn’t seem to make any difference to the child by his howls. “I’ll fetch Fraser,” he said. “Then we’ll go.”

 

In fact, when he went out into the hall he almost ran into Fraser.

 

“Commander!” the man said with evident relief.

 

Cullen filled him in quickly — the Chargers, the Hawke Estate. “Kill says there’s someone else who should be brought?”

 

Fraser’s face took on an expression Cullen knew well, had seen on Killeen’s face a couple of times: distaste thinly disguised by the overlay of respect necessitated by talking to a superior officer. “Yes. He’s probably sleeping off last night in my room.”

 

Cullen followed Fraser, Killeen a little behind them, to one of the rooms further down the hall. It was almost the same as Killeen’s, except instead of a screaming child, the bed held a snoring man, face down and still dressed.

 

“That’s him,” Fraser said. He prodded the man’s leg, but neither that, nor the piercing wails from Thomas, seemed enough to wake him.

 

“Let’s get him up,” Cullen said. Explanations could wait — the most important task at hand was to get Killeen out of here and get Thomas to whatever medical attention he needed. He took hold of the man’s arm and heaved him over, then almost let him fall back in shock. The once-handsome face, features now blurred by years of drinking, was unmistakable. “ _Maker’s breath!_ Alistair?”

 

Alistair’s eyes opened. “S’me,” he slurred, then blinked, and frowned. “Cullen? S’at you?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said, pulling Alistair to his feet. “Get his other arm, Fraser.” _Didn’t Teagan take him back to Redcliffe?_ Cullen had avoided Alistair in the years the man had been a notorious and obnoxious drunk in the _Hanged Man_ , but he’d heard that Teagan had managed to have Alistair’s exile lifted and had taken the former Grey Warden home.

 

_Apparently not._

 

“You two know each other?” Killeen asked from the doorway.

 

“We’ve met,” Cullen said tersely. He hauled Alistair’s arm over his shoulders. _Not under circumstances I wish to remember — or to discuss in front of Fraser_. “Come on, man. We’re leaving.”

 

“But I _like_ it here,” Alistair protested.

 

“No doubt,” Cullen said. “But you’re not staying.”

 

Between them, Cullen and Fraser got Alistair down the stairs and out into the street, Killeen following with Thomas in her arms. In the thin autumn sunlight, she looked even more strained, mouth tight, flinching a little at each scream from the child and awkwardly trying to keep her cloak wrapped so as to shelter him from the keen wind coming up from the harbour.

 

Finally, they reached the Hawke Estate. Leaving Alistair propped between Fraser and the wall, Cullen knocked on the door, and after a moment the metal guard behind the spyhole scraped back, and then he heard the bolts thrown open and the key in the lock.

 

It was Krem on the other side of the door, and he stepped back to let them enter with no more than a slightly raised eyebrow at the screaming baby and the stumbling drunk, then closed and secured the door behind them.

 

“Where’s Stitches?” Cullen asked, having to raise his voice as the child’s wails echoed off the marble and filled the foyer. “And Mia?”

 

“Your sister’s in the kitchen,” Krem said. “I’ll fetch Stitches there.”

 

“Keep an eye on Alistair,” Cullen ordered Fraser, and put his arm around Killeen’s shoulders, steering her toward the kitchen. “Come on. It’ll be all right, now. It’ll be all right.”

 

Mia _was_ in the kitchen, although she was in the doorway as they reached it. “I was just coming to see what the fuss was,” she said to Cullen. “Is this —?”

 

“Killeen Hanmount,” Cullen said. “This is my sister Mia, Kill.”

 

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Mia said to Killeen, “Is this your little nephew?”

 

“Maybe,” Killeen said. “There’s something wrong with him — he cries and cries and won’t stop —” Her voice cracked and she fell silent.

 

Mia paused, looking from the baby to Killeen, and then asked very gently, “May I hold him?”

 

Killeen hesitated, and then nodded. Mia took Thomas from her with practised care. “How long has been unsettled? Will he eat?”

 

“Days. I don’t know, days,” Killeen said vaguely. “He eats. Cries until he falls asleep and wakes up and cries and —”

 

“You must be close to losing your mind,” Mia said. She settled herself in the chair by the kitchen fire, then opened Thomas’ mouth with one finger and peered inside. “I know I was, with Stanton.”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said, sounding a little surprised. Thomas wailed harder as Mia put her finger in his mouth and Killeen flinched. “You’re hurting him!”

 

“He’s not in pain, just uncomfortable,” Mia said. She ignored the baby’s cries and continued to rub his mouth gently. “So you would be, if —” Thomas stopped screaming, and Mia smiled. “There you are, little man. That’s better, isn’t it?” The silence was so sudden Cullen felt almost as if he’d gone deaf, and he was startled when Mia spoke again. “You’d howl too if you were cutting your first tooth.”

 

“That’s what’s wrong with him?” Killeen asked hoarsely. “And that’s all I had to do? Stick my finger in his mouth?”

 

“It helps,” Mia said. “They like to chew things, too. The tooth is nearly through, I think, and he’ll be his normal self again.”

 

Killeen’s voice shook wildly. “All I had to do was stick my finger in his mouth. That’s all I had to do. I — ” She turned toward the door, turned back, gasped, “I have to —”

 

Cullen reached for her. “Kill.”

 

“What’s the problem?” Stitches said from the doorway, Krem behind him.

 

Killeen gave a bark of laughter, clutched her head for a second and then flung herself at the door to the kitchen garden and through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who noticed the discrepancy in the dates — that was authorial error, not authorial intent, and has been corrected.


	46. In The Kitchen Garden - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen has had enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time, sorry! It just worked out that way.

_25 Kingsway_

* * *

 

Killeen stumbled through the herb-beds and fetched up against the wall. The stone was rough and cold beneath her palms as she braced herself and gulped great breaths of cool, fresh air. _All I had to do was stick my finger in his mouth …_

 

She could hear herself breathe, for the first time in days, could hear herself think — _could_ think, for the first time in what felt like forever, something other than _what’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong with him …_

 

The door behind her opened and she spun, hand dropping to her sword hilt, adrenaline hitting her bloodstream as she saw _big man in armour_ before she recognised the fair hair gilded to gold by the few rays of sunlight that made their way down over the high garden walls, the warm brown eyes, the dear, beloved, beautiful mouth … _Cullen._ Her hand fell to her side, heart still pounding.

 

“Is he still all right?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. He took a cautious step toward her and she closed the rest of the distance between them, burying her face in the fur of his cloak, feeling his arms strong around her. “Are _you_ all right?”

 

Killeen opened her mouth to say _Yes, of course_ and felt a bubble of what might be laughter or might be a scream trying to force its way up her throat. She clamped her mouth shut and nodded against his shoulder instead, whole body shaking with the thunder of her pulse until she thought that it would tear her apart. Cullen’s embrace was all that was holding her together — and then suddenly the arms around her, the armoured body against her own, were making everything worse and she couldn’t stand it, couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep — She tried to pull away from him, pushed against his chest when he didn’t release her, opened her mouth to say _Let me go —_

 

And the tears came, a flood of them, gulping sobs so violent Killeen couldn’t get her breath past them, feeling as if each convulsive gasp tore something in her chest and ripped through her throat, as if something was clawing its way out of her. She tried to stop, to push the tears down, _away_ , tried to get free of Cullen’s arms — panic gave her strength and she fought him hard, heard him grunt as a blow made an impact despite his armour — but he didn’t, wouldn’t, let her go, and she couldn’t — couldn’t —

 

“It’s all right, Kill,” he said steadily. “You’re all right.”

 

_He won’t let me go._

_There’s nothing I can do that will make him let me go_.

 

And then there was no way for her to keep holding on and no need to try and the sobs poured out of her, no longer painful but a relief. Her legs buckled beneath her, and Cullen eased her down to the ground until they were both sitting in the remnants of the Champion’s herbs. He held her with a strength she could feel even through her mail, murmuring reassurances and comfort as she wept and wept.

 

Eventually her sobs eased to exhausted hiccoughs.

 

“Better?” Cullen asked, hand gentle on her hair.

 

“I’ve missed you so much!” Killeen said on a fresh trickle of tears.

 

“I’m here now,” Cullen said. “Kill, I would have come sooner if I’d known —”

 

“You’re here now,” Killeen said. “And I was all right, mostly, until he started screaming night and day.” She sniffed. “They were going to kick us out of the _Hanged Man_ because of it. I didn’t know where — and all I had to do was stick my finger in his mouth!”

 

“He’s all right now,” Cullen said. “He’s all right, and safe, and you’re safe, and if we haven’t heard from Aveline by this evening I’ll talk to her about including the Chargers in her plans. We’ll find your sister. It will be all right.”

 

Killeen wanted to believe it, almost could believe it with his hand stroking her hair and the familiar hideous fur of his cloak beneath her cheek. “I missed you so much,” she said again, losing half the sentence in a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

“How long since you’ve slept?” Cullen asked.

 

Killeen pretended to consider. “What year is it?”

 

He chuckled. “Can you get up? I’m sure there must be a bed made up somewhere in this place by now.”

 

Killeen nodded, and with his help managed to get to her feet. Her knees kept wanting to fold up under her, though, and the garden shifted around her slowly. Cullen held her up with an arm around her waist and steered her back into the kitchen, where Mia was still sitting by the fire, a now-sleeping Thomas in her lap.

 

“He’ll do fine here,” Cullen’s sister said. “I’ll look after him. Get some rest.”

 

“Thanks,” Killeen said, feeling it to be completely inadequate. “I — ah —”

 

“We’ll meet properly later,” Mia said with a smile. “I know how you must feel after what this little man’s put you through.”

 

Killeen nodded, staggered a little as the motion made the floor rock. Cullen’s arm tightened around her. “Are any of the bedrooms ready?” he asked Mia.

 

“All the ones at the back, upstairs,” Mia said. “They put your … _friend_ to bed in the back left room. I think Felandaris has claimed the master suite for you.”

 

_Fel_? Killeen thought, but only with faint surprise. It seemed no more unlikely that Fel would be here than anything ever did in a dream. Distantly, she heard Cullen explaining that Fel was now his squire as he helped her up the stairs, which apparently had something to do with Ser Calenhad.

 

It was beyond Killeen to follow it. When Cullen steered her into a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom and Fel herself appeared, throwing her arms around Killeen’s waist in a ferocious embrace, Killeen simply hugged her back unquestioningly.

 

“She’s very tired, cubling,” Cullen said. “Help me put her to bed.”

 

Killeen sank down onto the bed and let her eyes close as hands unfastened her armour, pulled off her boots. The bed was so soft she might have been floating, drifting content in a haze of exhaustion and the relief of being free from the constriction of her armour. Realising she was on the verge of sleep, she forced herself to open her eyes. “Cullen?”

 

“Still here,” he said.

 

“Stay.”

 

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Always,” he said, hand warm over hers.

 

Killeen concentrated hard and managed to turn her hand over, laced her fingers through his —

 

And was gone.

 


	47. In The Champion's Bedroom - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone gets what they both want and need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

 

_25 Kingsway._

* * *

 

Killeen woke so suddenly that for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Cullen’s weight was warm in the bed beside her, which meant Skyhold — but there was no hole in the roof — she could hear gulls outside, which was Kirkwall but this large and luxurious room was surely not in the _Hanged Man_ —

 

Somewhere downstairs, a baby squawked and was quickly hushed.

 

Memory flooded back. _The Hawke Estate … Cullen’s sister … Fel, the Chargers …_

By the colour of the light streaming through the window, she’d slept much of the day. The last few days seemed like a distant dream — a bad one, but over now, fading into insubstantial wisps of mist in the light of day. Killeen rolled over onto her side to face Cullen, feeling the same sharp pulse of joy at the sight of him as she always did, keener now after so long without him. He was fast asleep, no trace of troubling dreams in his deep, even breathing, the utter relaxation in the arm flung out toward her. She could look her fill, tracing the fine line of his cheekbone with her eyes, gaze lingering on the sweet curve of his mouth, the fine scar he had got when —

 

_The caravan has come in from the far north of the Free Marches, the men and women with it on the thin edge of civilisation and not always on the right side of it, either — many with painted faces, cloaks woven and worn in strange style, hair thick with grease and hands never far from their swords._

Trouble _, Killeen thinks when she sees them the first time, and when they’ve sold their wares and made their purchases and settle down to celebrating,_ trouble _, she thinks again._

_They’re not doing anything she can arrest them for, or have them thrown out of the city gates — just drinking and dancing to their odd music with its pounding drums and skirling flute. Still, she’s uneasy, sends a runner for reinforcements — thinks she’s left it too late as the firelight glints on a bare blade and then realises it’s not the start of a fight, but a new part of the dance._

_“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cullen says from behind her._

_It is impressive, as first one and then more of the visitors leap and spin around the fire, the bare blades in their hands flashing in the torchlight, their bare feet pounding the dirt in time to the insistent rhythm of the drum. Impressive enough to any observer, but to one trained in combat, who knows just how much skill and strength it takes to spin those weapons over and around with with such precision and speed — it’s breathtaking. “You’ve seen it before?” she asks Cullen._

_“Once or twice. It’s a war dance.”_

_Of_ course _it is. Spectacular and entertaining as it is, it’s still a display meant to intimidate and overawe. Killeen rests her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Does it mean they’re going to fight?”_

_“No,” Cullen assures her. “Once upon a time, perhaps, but not these days.”_

_She is about to ask where and how he came to see this sort of dance before when a shout comes from further up Half Moon Street._ You big Qunari bastard _, Killeen makes out, and is moving, Cullen by her side, hoping to reach the disturbance before it goes beyond something she can settle with a few well chosen words._

_The trouble is at High Gothering’s wine shop, and perhaps Killeen might have been able to usefully intervene between the merchant and the Qunari and two dwarves he’s arguing with but the situation is more complicated than that._

_“Get that animal_ out _of there!” Gothering splutters, and from inside the shop Killeen hears a thump and a mule’s bray._

_“But he’s thirsty!” one of the dwarves explains._

_Killeen peers in through the door and sees that the mule_ is _, apparently, thirsty: thirsty enough to have kicked a hole in one of Gothering’s barrels and to be drinking what smells like brandy as it runs down to the floor._

_“Well, this is a new one,” she says to Cullen, and the corner of his perfect mouth twitches up in a smile._

_“I want that animal arrested!” Gothering demands._

_“Don’t you dare hurt Daisy!” the Qunari snarls, and there’s suddenly pushing and shoving — Gothering stumbles backwards and sits down hard —_

_“Enough!” Cullen roars, in the middle of it, holding the participants apart, staring up at the Qunari with a face that could be carved from marble, so cold and hard is the expression on it. “Wait over there.” He points to the other side of the street. “We’ll get your animal.”_

Easier said than done _, Killeen thinks some minutes later as the two of them try to corner the intoxicated mule in Gothering’s crowded shop with the floor slippery with spilled alcohol._

_“Stay there,” Cullen says. “I’ll scare him toward you —”_

_But instead of bolting toward Killeen when Cullen waves his arms, the mule puts its head down and charges, catching Cullen in the stomach and sending him flying backwards with a clang of plate. Glass breaks._

_Even if your head is as hard as a mule’s, head-butting a man in full plate-mail isn’t recommended, and the animal stops dead, swaying. Killeen takes the opportunity to grab its ear and twist, forcing it to turn toward the door and then dragging it through._

_Mule and owners successfully and happily reunited, she goes back inside. “Cullen? You all right?”_

_“Hit my head,” he says groggily._

_Killeen grabs the lamp from the counter and finds Cullen sprawled in the shattered remnants of what must be a dozen goblets, and Maker, there’s blood everywhere, all over his face —_

_Glass crunches beneath her knees as she kneels down beside him, setting the lantern down and pulling off her gloves. “Hold still,” she says calmly, takes his face between her hands. There’s a long, shallow gash in his hair, bleeding as extravagantly as scalp wounds always did, but there’s more blood than that can explain — she finds the other injury, a long thin cut slicing up from his lip to his cheek, courtesy no doubt of the broken glass. It’s deep, but as far as she can tell only superficial._

_“My face,” Cullen says dazedly, winces as the words pull at the cut._

 

_“Don’t worry,” Killeen says. “You’re still pretty.”_

_He lifts one gauntleted hand, touches the scar on her own cheek._

_“Not as bad as mine, no, nowhere near that bad,” she assures him._

_He frowns, slightly, brown eyes almost puzzled — and then they roll upwards and he’s out._

 

It had healed well, in the end, Killeen thought, had been less trouble than the concussion that had kept him abed several days. _Cullen’s head being somewhat more tender than a mule’s._

It was strange, thinking back on those days after the Chantry had been destroyed, with him right here in front of her now. _As if nothing’s really changed — here we are in Kirkwall together, as we were_.

 

Except he was sleeping in her bed, and _everything_ had changed.

 

_Myself included_. Killeen could remember how it had felt, to be a Guard, to live a life that involved fetching recalcitrant animals out of shops or soothing ruffled tempers in the market as well as fighting for her life — could remember, but not quite touch the feeling, as if it were on the other side of one of the great stained glass windows in Skyhold, out of reach and all the wrong colours.

 

The realisation that she needed the chamberpot interrupted her chain of thought. She slipped out of the bed and looked under it. _Nothing_.

 

_Surely the Champion of Kirkwall didn’t trek downstairs to the outhouse in the middle of the night?_

_She probably has a whole room to piss in, this being the Hawke Estate_.

 

Sure enough, a little exploration revealed a door that led to a small, tiled room with an outhouse seat over a hole in the floor, a pump set above it. Killeen worked the pump and watched water pour down the hole. _Fancy_.

 

There was a basin and ewer as well. Killeen took care of her most urgent consideration, and then stripped her shirt and breeches and washed off several days of sweat and baby vomit as thoroughly as she could under the circumstances. Somewhere in the Estate was doubtless a bath, perhaps one that would even meet Dorian’s approval, and she determined to find it as soon as possible.

 

“Kill?” Cullen called from the bedroom.

 

“Here,” she answered, bundled up her clothes and stepped back out into the bedroom. Cullen was sitting up in the bed, turned toward her. “You know Hawke has fancy dwarven plumbing?” Killeen told him. “Definitely something to think about in Skyhold winters.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Cullen said a little vaguely. He held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

 

Killeen did, stopped at the edge of the bed and took his hand.

 

For a moment, she simply gazed at him, feasting on the sight of him: fair hair darkening almost to bronze in the late afternoon light streaming through the window, the curls at his temples and the nape of his neck defeating his attempts to tame them after weeks of travel; the dusting of golden stubble along his jaw; the long, clever fingers toying with her own, the shift of muscle in his shoulder and neck as he turned a little more toward her and the way his amber eyes darkened to a peaty brown, beautiful lips parting slightly, a flush colouring his perfect cheekbones ...

 

Abruptly, his grip tightened and he pulled her down to him, one arm circling her waist, his other hand tangled in her hair, his mouth hard and demanding on hers. Killeen returned his kiss with equal ferocity, digging her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and back, arching her back to be closer, closer,  _closer_  ... 

  
He lifted her bodily, pulling her into his lap. She could feel his erection through his breeches, squirmed until she was straddling him, gasped as his hands gripped her hips and he pulled her hard against him.  Her hips rocked in an involuntary response to the heat of him, to the friction, to the warmth inside her spiralling higher with every touch of his hands and lips.

  
_Too many clothes_ , she thought with what was left of her conscious mind, tore frantically at his shirt and heard it rip. He groaned as her questing hands found his bare skin and then flipped her suddenly onto her back.

  
"Kill ..." he breathed, and then pushed her knees wider apart and bent between her legs.

 

She cried out at the unexpected intensity of it, the warmth of his lips and tongue, teasing her, tasting her, writhed beneath his touch, everything tightening, tensing ... his fingers inside her added to the delicious, unbearable flood of tingling heat that pulsed through her, moving in the same insistent rhythm as his tongue, a rhythm that was almost, that was not quite, that was nearly —  

  
"Oh,  _Maker_!" she heard herself shout, doubling up as a lightning bolt of white hot release shot through her, followed by long, shuddering waves of pleasure. “Maker, Maker, Maker …”

  
She was still trembling and twitching when Cullen let her go, freed himself from his breeches and drove into her. Another pleasurable clench and twist of release and she whimpered at the exquisite stretch and ache, feeling him filling her utterly, of having him exactly where he was meant to be. 

 

He stilled, gasping, looking down at her, every muscle tense and trembling with the effort of that stillness. "Did — I — hurt — ?" he panted. 

 

"No," she said, hooked her leg around his thighs to anchor herself and thrust up hard against him. Cullen groaned, almost growled, and then was moving again, plunging into her with a force that moved them both across the bed with each thrust. Killeen clutched his shoulders, imprecations and endearments tumbling from her lips as each powerful thrust sent a throb through her whole body, mounting, climbing —

 

And then a cracking noise from beneath them and the bed tilted sideways. Cullen swore and reached out to steady them, but to no avail. Something toppled and smashed — they were on the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets, still entwined. 

 

“Are you —?” Cullen gasped.

 

“Yes — you?”

 

He answered by rolling them over until she was beneath him again and ramming into her once more, faster and harder than before, pushing her along the floor until she could reach the wall above her head and brace them both. The floorboards were hard beneath her, her muscles protesting as she arched her back to take him deeper, splinters biting her shoulder blades and oh, it was good, it was right, it was —

Cullen gasped her name. One final hard thrust and the heat of his seed spilled into her and Killeen went over the edge of the cliff with him, feeling her body contract and pulse around him as he cried out and shuddered and finally began to soften. 

 

She wrapped her arms and legs around him and held him to her. His weight was uncomfortably heavy, especially with the hard wooden floor beneath her — was wonderful, was utterly necessary.

 

“All right?” Cullen asked dazedly after a moment.

 

“Uh huh,” Killeen managed. The twitch and shudder of an aftershock ran through her and Cullen caught his breath.

 

“ _Maker_ , Kill.” He raised himself a little to look down at her. “I can’t believe I was foolish enough to let you go traipsing across Thedas without me.”

 

“I can’t believe I was foolish enough to go,” Killeen said, and her heart twisted with happiness when he smiled down at her. “Oh, Cullen, I love you, my darling, I love you so.”

 

He kissed her, gentle and slow, fingers tracing her jaw. “Enough to take the blame if the Champion returns and finds out what we’ve done to her bedroom?”

 

Killeen turned her head and saw the wreckage of the room: mattress hanging off the splintered frame of the bed, a wall hanging ripped loose and the bedside table overturned, the ornaments on it scattered and shattered. “Let’s leave town,” she said, and Cullen chuckled softly.

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

“Starving,” Killeen said. “But I don’t want to move.”

 

“I’ll fetch you something.”

 

She tightened her arms around him. “I don’t want you to move either.”

 

“That’s going to make it difficult to leave town,” Cullen observed, and she laughed.

 

“So,” she said. “Explain about Fel.”


	48. In The Kitchen - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, noises off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter - because it’s a scene added by request.

_25 Kingsway_

 

 

* * *

 

“The Firstfall winds lament around the castle of Rainesfere,” Mia sang softly to the babe in her arms. “But peace is in those lofty halls, my own sweet treasure there.” Another unmistakable cry from the bedroom upstairs echoed through the excellent acoustics created by the stone walls and marble flooring, and Mia raised her voice a little. “Sing hush-a-bye loo-la-loo-low-lan, sing hush-a-by loo-la-loo. Give the spit another turn, Stanton.” She turned to Fel, who was staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. “Would you like to hold little Thomas, Felandaris?”

 

“No,” Fel said. “Babies are boring. Is Kill all right?”

 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Mia said, which was entirely honest. True, the woman had been on the ragged edge of hysteria when they’d met that morning, but Mia had clear enough memories of just how tight a child’s incessant crying could wind the nerves, _even if you know what’s causing it, which she had no way to_. She had clear memories, too, of how magically six or seven hours uninterrupted sleep in a quiet house could mend a young mother’s temper.

 

_Poor woman_ , Mia thought, looking down at Thomas who, for the moment, looked as sweetly innocent as only a baby cried out to exhaustion could. _It can’t be how she meant to meet Cullen’s family._ Although, given the careless volume of the noises from upstairs, Killeen was quite possibly entirely indifferent as to what impression she made on people.

 

From his seat in the corner of the room, the Iron Bull gave a great rumble of laughter. “Sounds like she’s better than fine.”

 

“Yes, that’ll be enough, the Iron Bull,” Mia said firmly.

 

“I’m not the one you need to tell,” the Bull said as another wail of ecstasy came from above. _“Vashedan_ , the woman’s loud.”

 

“What are they doing?” Fel asked. Stanton turned from his job of basting the meat, face red from either the heat of the fire or the embarrassment of being old enough to have a pretty good idea at what his uncle was, in fact, doing.

 

“They’re, um, pleased to see each other,” Mia started, “and —”

 

“They’re having sex, kid,” the Bull said bluntly.

 

Mia felt her own face flame. “The Iron Bull!” she snapped.

 

He gave a massive shrug. “If you think you can put her off with stories about _special wrestling_ for long with Cullen and Killeen under the same roof, you’re going to be disappointed,” he said. “Besides, Fel’s a Skyhold brat. Crowded living quarters. You know what sex is, right, kid?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Fel said, nodding. “It’s when people do what animals do in the spring except they do it all year around and in private.” She paused as a howl of _Maker, Maker, Maker!_ split the air. “And sometimes really, really loudly.”

 

“There you go,” the Bull said to Mia.

 

“It’s not a seemly topic of conversation,” Mia said firmly. “For anyone, but particularly for children.” _And he **is** my little brother, and I really, really would rather not be listening to this._

 

“You people have some weird hang-ups,” the Bull said. He stretched out a long arm and picked an apple out of the barrel Grim and Rocky had lugged up from the market. “Either you’re doing it and not talking about it, or you’re not doing it when you should be, or you’re doing it with the wrong people and getting upset about it.” He took a bite from his apple. “Now, in the Qun, we have it all sorted out.”

 

“I don’t wish to hear about it!” Mia said. “I —”

 

A mighty crash from upstairs cut her off and they all stared at the ceiling.

 

Except the Bull, who continued eating his apple. “Sounds like the bed,” he said.

 

“Flames!” Mia said. “They might be hurt!”

 

_Yes, oh, yes_ drifted through the air, and the Iron Bull grinned. “Not hurt,” he said, finished his apple and pitched the core into the fire. “Impressive stamina, your brother.”

 

About to snap another doubtless-useless instruction to leave the subject alone, Mia caught something in the Qunari’s expression beyond lazy amusement at her embarrassment. Something … _watchful_. _Assessing._

 

_People think he’s stupid because of his size and strength_ , Cullen had said, a casual remark on the road. _He lets them. He was one of their top secret agents for a long time._

 

Mia set her jaw and glared at the Iron Bull. _Testing me, are you?_

 

Abruptly, she rose to her feet, crossed the room and deposited Thomas in the Bull’s massive arms.

 

He clutched at the baby reflexively. “Hey!”

 

“I’ve vegetables to peel,” Mia said, using exactly the tone she’d have used at home when one of the children protested at being given a chore. “Anyone would think you’ve never held a baby before.”

 

“I haven’t,” the Bull said. “We have people to do that, back home.”

 

“So do we,” Mia said, picking up the paring knife and selecting a potato. “We call them women, as if pushing a child into the world means you’re obliged to do all the work of them afterwards, too.”

 

“I, uh, don’t think that way,” the Qunari assured her. “Shit, you should see some of the women in the Inquisition. If you asked them to change an infant you’d take your tongue home in your coin-purse.”

 

“Good,” Mia said calmly. “Then you won’t mind holding Thomas for a while.”

 

“Only until he starts crying,” the Bull warned.

 

Another cry from upstairs, two voices together. Mia determinedly didn’t look away from the potato in her hand. “If he starts crying, just let him chew on your finger,” she said. “And I’ll thank you not to use that language under a roof that holds children.”

 

“They’ve heard worse.”

“That’s as may be, but there’s no need to add to it.” She gave him a stern look, the one that always quelled Stanton and was even, occasionally, effective on her irrepressible eldest daughter. “Have I made myself clear?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” the Bull said meekly.

 

And there it was again, the hint of something else behind his eyes, a sharp intelligence at odds with the Qunari’s bluff and garrulous behaviour. _Push until I push back, and then pretend retreat_. On a chessboard, that would be a trap, drawing her attack down an open file of her opponent’s choosing.

 

Mia peeled potatoes, and thought, feeling as keenly alive as she did on those rare occasions she had the chance to play against someone who could truly test her. Finally, she tipped the potatoes from her apron into the pot of boiling water ready for them.

 

“Go and tell Cullen and Killeen that dinner is ready,” she said to Fel. “Maker knows, from the sound of it they’ll need to keep their strength up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have shamelessly appropriated the traditional Irish song, “The castle of Dromore”.


	49. In The Dining Room - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowdsourcing info: can anyone tell me if the Iron Bull addresses Krem other than by his name?

 

 

_25 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

“So,” Killeen said. “Explain about Fel. And … was I dreaming, or is Ser Calenhad involved?”

 

“Ser Calenhad the cat,” Cullen said. “Kill, aren’t you cold?”

 

“Yes,” she admitted, and reluctantly loosened her grip on him.

 

Cullen got to his feet and went to stir the fire. Killeen rolled over to her side and watched him. The afternoon light traced the muscles of his back and arms as he crouched by the fireplace, gilded the fine fur of hair on his arms and chest — Killeen realised he was speaking and she had no idea what he’d just said. “Start again,” she said. “Your beauty distracted me.”

 

He laughed, blushed a little, rubbed the back of his neck. “Things were … difficult for her at home. Her mother, Anandra — she was with child. _Before_ she left Skyhold. And Rennett — Anandra’s husband —” Cullen paused. “Quicker with his fists than he should have been.”

 

Killeen felt rage rise through her like a red tide. “He _struck_ her?”

 

“Once,” Cullen said quickly.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I broke his nose and cracked his skull,” Cullen said.

 

“Good,” Killeen said with vicious satisfaction. “Shame you didn’t kill him.”

 

“Dorian kept me from it,” Cullen said. He rose to his feet again and came back to where she sat, gathering the blankets from the floor on his way. “Just as well. It would have … complicated matters.” He draped one of the blankets around her shoulders and sat back down, gathering her to him. “Anyway, the cubling had run away once already. I couldn’t leave her there — a squire-ship seemed the legally soundest solution.”

 

“It’s as well you didn’t come with me, then,” Killeen said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Or neither of us would have been there when she needed us.”

 

“As well,” Cullen conceded. “But torment, nonetheless.”

 

Killeen curled against him and listened as he told the rest of his travels, Cole’s message, his care of Fel when she ran away, the journey from Redcliff … something tugged at her attention, slipped away when she tried to focus on it like a fish sliding between her fingers as she grasped for it … she told her own story in turn. She realised, as she did, that she was glossing over certain details, leaving out a few locations. The blood mages were _in the south-east corner_ , not _in the south-east corner of Darktown_ ; in the retelling, the Guard were closer behind her than they had been. Cullen already knew from Aveline where Jean was thought to be: Killeen gave him a condensed and edited version of how they’d come to get the information, Aveline’s refusal to allow her to be part of the operation to free Jean — if she was in fact being held by Thompkinson and if Aveline was right and Jean was still alive.

 

“And how did you come to be responsible for Alistair?” Cullen asked, and Killeen thought his tone was perhaps overly, deliberately casual, though the hand tracing circles on her back didn’t stop its steady movement.

 

“He …” Killeen hesitated. “Helped. When I was fetching Thomas. He said he used to be a Templar. He hadn’t a roof over his head — I couldn’t just _leave_ him like that …” She pulled away a little to look up at him. “Or should I have? Where do you know him from?”

 

“From … Ferelden. The Blight. The Circle Tower.”

 

“He was a Templar with you there? Maker’s balls, no wonder he drinks.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “He’d already left the Order when I met him. He was a Grey Warden. Alistair was one of the Hero of Ferelden’s companions. He fought by her side to defeat the abominations and demons in the Circle Tower, and many other places. And … if he’d been born in wedlock, or acknowledged by his father, he’d be Alistair Theirin, rightful king of Fereldan.”

 

“He _what_?” Killeen said, staring at him. “That sot?”

 

“He wasn’t a sot then,” Cullen said. “He was one of the heroes of our age.”

 

“What happened to him?”

 

Cullen gathered her close to him again, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “All I know is what I’ve heard from Leliana,” he said. “King Cailan was Alistair’s half-brother. After he died at Ostagar, Alistair blamed Loghain Mac Tir.”

 

“He’s not on his own there,” Killeen said.

 

“No. He and Solona — the Hero — were the only Grey Wardens in Ferelden left alive after Ostagar.”

 

“I know that bit,” Killeen said, ignoring the fact that it was the first time she’d heard him call the Hero by name — Solona, a woman he knew when she was unimportant and human and _knowable_ , not _The Hero_ , from myth and legend. It meant something, she was sure — something she would unpick later.

 

“They set out to end the Blight, but Alistair also wanted revenge on Loghain. When Solona conscripted Loghain into the Wardens instead of executing him … Alistair was furious. He left the Wardens — Queen Anora wished him executed, but Solona persuaded her to exile him, instead.”

 

“I should hope so,” Killeen said. “I mean, quitting before the battle’s won is despicable, but not deserving of the headsman’s axe, after all he’d done.”

 

“I think the Queen had it more in mind to remove a potential claimant to the throne,” Cullen said. “Leliana said that Solona had to do some fast talking to have him spared. Actually, I gather her plan originally was to marry Anora to Alistair and solve the problem that way, but Alistair wouldn’t do it.”

 

“The daughter of the man who’d killed his brother? No wonder.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “And they were in love, of course, Solona and Alistair. And she died, defeating the Archdemon, and Loghain was alive, with his daughter on the throne he’d so coveted for her … Alistair ended up here in Kirkwall. I … avoided him, then. The circumstances under which we met …”

 

“I’m sorry,” Killeen said. “If I’d known, I would never have thought to bring him with us.”

 

“I’m glad you did,” Cullen said. “He’s earned better than sleeping in an alleyway.”

 

“Yes, but …” Killeen laced her fingers through his. “He loved her, the Hero. And you loved her. And he was there …”

 

“It feels like a very long time ago, now,” Cullen said. “And I didn’t love her, not the way I think _he_ did. She was pretty, and kind, and brave, and I was very young, and it was my duty to protect her. Alistair, though … he loved her the way I love you — I didn’t understand, back then, what losing her must have done to him. If I had, I might have gone out of my way to be … kinder. To see if there was anything to be done for him.” His arm around her shoulders tightened briefly. “Perhaps not, though. Given how … things were for me, then.”

 

Killeen bit her lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen properly, when you tried to tell me…”

 

“Tell you what?” Cullen asked.

 

“That night … do you remember? I dragged you out for a drink at the _Green Door_.”

 

“I remember,” Cullen said, then amended that. “I remember _most_ of it.”

 

Killeen laughed softly at the old joke between them. “Lightweight. I didn’t understand what you were saying. I didn’t listen properly. I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t remember what I said,” Cullen said.

 

“You said _I dream about her._ You told me _it won’t stop. She won’t stop._ You were — I thought you were telling me that you were in love with her, with the Hero. That you still loved her.” She paused. “But that wasn’t it, was it? You were telling me about … the dreams.”

 

“You thought …” Cullen paused. “ _I_ thought, afterwards, that I’d said something … that I _had_ told you — or that perhaps I’d been over-familiar.”

 

Killeen snorted. “I wish you had been.”

 

“I hardly knew I wanted to,” Cullen said. “Kill … there’s much I’ve never told you, about those times. About what it was like. What _I_ was like.”

 

“It’s the past,” Killeen said.

 

“It feels less like the past, being here,” Cullen said, echoing her own thoughts of earlier. “I will tell you, Kill, I want to … but …”

 

“There’s time,” she said. “We —”

 

A knock on the door interrupted her. “Kill?” Fel’s voice called. “Ser Bear?”

 

“Yes, cubling?” Cullen answered.

 

“Mistress Mia says the dinner’s ready, if you two want to keep up your strength.” Fel paused. “For the sex.”

 

Killeen covered her mouth to suppress a splutter of laughter, looked up to see Cullen’s face brick red. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, cubling,” he said. “Please tell her we’ll be down shortly.”

 

Fel’s footsteps receded. “Thank the Maker you locked the door,” Killeen said.

 

“You can consider that lesson learnt,” Cullen said. He looked around the wreckage of the room. “I’m not going to be able to look Mia in the eye.”

 

“ _You_ ,” Killeen said, getting up and starting to hunt for her pack. “I met her for the first time today. I was _hoping_ to make a good impression, Andraste only knows what she’ll think of me now. Where’s my gear?”

 

“In the wardrobe,” Cullen said. “And she’ll think you make her brother very happy.”

 

Killeen found the wardrobe and yanked out her spare shirt and breeches. “Or that I’m a jauntering slut who can’t take care of a child for two days without catastrophe and can’t be alone with her brother without ripping his clothes off.”

 

“That last is actually true,” Cullen said with a smile.

 

“Yes but I don’t want your _sister_ to know that,” Killeen said. “Flames, we’d better wash.”

 

“I’ll sponge you down anytime you ask,” Cullen said with a comically exaggerated leer.

 

Killeen threw a clean shirt at him. “Cover up your gorgeousness or I’ll take you up on that and Mia will feed our dinner to the chickens.”

 

In fact, they were only slightly late to the table in the Champion’s huge dining hall — a table large enough to accommodate their whole party, although the Bull had been forced to move one of the great wooden chairs from the foyer in to accommodate his bulk.

 

Someone had found or purchased a cradle, and it was set by the wall a little distance from the fireplace. Forgetting her embarrassment, and the need to make a good impression on Cullen’s sister, Killeen crossed to it and looked in. Thomas lay peacefully asleep, sucking on the fingers of one hand, as if he’d never cried in his life, let alone for days at a time.

 

“He’s had some dinner,” Mia said softly beside her. “He’s washed and changed and as tired out as you were, poor little thing.”

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said. “For taking care of him — for helping him. I didn’t know what to do —”

 

“Oh, and who would?” Mia said comfortably. “I had my mother, with Stanton, and I still hardly knew up from down. Taking care of a child without anyone to show you how is like trying to find your way blindfold from Denerim to Val Royeaux. You might get there in the end, but more by good luck than good management.”

 

Killeen chuckled, then clapped her hand over her mouth lest she wake the baby. “It felt more like trying to swim the Waking Sea in full armour.”

 

“You did well,” Mia said. “He’s a healthy little boy. Now you come and have your own dinner.”

 

Killeen let Mia draw her to a chair next to her own. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined meeting Cullen’s family,” she said as she took her seat and reached for the nearest platter. It was simple roast meat and vegetables, but the smell was heavenly, and Killeen suddenly felt as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.

 

“It could be worse,” Mia said. “When Joen — my husband — first met my father he was stark naked and bright green.”

 

Killeen nearly choked on her first mouthful. “Why was your husband bright green?”

 

“Oh, not Joen. Father. There was an alchemist, you see, who wanted a great deal of some strange plant ground up fine, and Father was a miller, so he thought the millstones would make the task quicker. He was offering good money for it, so my father said yes …”

 

Killeen ate, and listened, as the story meandered on, and the conversation around the table ebbed and eddied around her. By the time Mia had reached the — _inevitable if you deal with alchemists —_ explosion, the cloud of green dust, the itching, and her father’s frantic dash to the nearest water-trough, stripping off his clothes as he ran, Killeen had nearly cleaned her plate, and realised she had completely forgotten to be nervous at meeting Cullen’s sister or self-conscious over the no-doubt-highly-audible destruction of the Champion’s bed.

 

When Dorian gave her a knowing look and asked how she’d slept, Killeen simply gave him a bland smile. “Quite well,” she said. “The bed seems to have woodworm, though. Quite rickety.”

 

The Iron Bull roared with laughter. “You two need Qunari furniture,” he said.

 

“Is that like Qunari _shirts_?” Krem asked. “Invisible?”

 

“I’ve seen Qunari in shirts,” Alistair said from further down the table. He had a wine goblet in front of him but, Killeen noted, no bottle in easy reach, and his voice and eyes seemed clearer than they had since she’d met him in the tunnels of Darktown. “Briefly.”

 

“Why briefly, ser?” Stanton asked him.

 

“It was the Battle of Kirkwall. I was running away.”

 

Stanton looked as disapproving as only an adolescent could, but the Bull nodded. “Shit, I heard about that one. Staying out of it was the smart thing to do.”

 

“Some of us didn’t have the choice,” Killeen said pointedly.

 

“Some of us aren’t stupid enough to sign on for open-ended engagements,” the Bull said. “But yeah, that was a mess. Embarrassing, too. Left a lot of people back home standing around with their dicks in the wind.”

 

“The Iron Bull,” Mia said firmly, “I’ve asked you to mind your language in front of the children.”

 

To Killeen’s surprise, the Bull looked abashed. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “So, uh, Alistair. How’d you meet up with Killeen, anyway?”

 

“It’s a long story,” Killeen said rapidly, before Alistair could open his mouth and come out with words like _Darktown_ and _maleficar._ “Bull, there might be some action in the next few days. Are the Chargers fit for it?”

 

“Always,” the Bull said with a grin. “Whose as— whose _asking_ for us to, uh. You know what I mean.”

 

“Man called Gregor Thompkinson, has an estate outside the city. Guards, fortifications, type and number unknown.”

 

“What’s he done?” Alistair asked.

 

“We think he’s got my sister in there,” Killeen said.

 

“Ready when you are,” the Bull assured her.

 

“I’ll talk to Aveline again when we’ve eaten,” Cullen said. “Find out what stage her plans are at.” He smiled at Killeen. “You might want to visit the stables, while I’m gone.”

 

Her heart gave a little leap at the smile, and then a second as she caught his meaning. “Firefly?”

 

“The same,” Cullen confirmed. “Sound and fit.”

 

Killeen finished her meal in three quick mouthfuls, and got to her feet. Cullen laughed. “I’ll let you know any news.”

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said, already on her way to the door.


	50. Outside The Gates - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which events move quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few longer chapters to make up for the shorter ones

_25 Kingsway_

  

* * *

 

It had seemed an easy, simple promise, _I’ll let you know any news_ , when he’d made it — but as the horses clattered through the city gates and out onto the moonlit road, Cullen realised it was a promise he’d broken.

 

There had simply been no time. Since night had been drawing in by the time he’d left the Hawke Estate and only the suicidally reckless walked Kirkwall’s streets alone after dark, Dorian, the Bull, Krem and Grim had come with him. Alistair, too, had expressed a desire to take the air — although Cullen had suspected his greater desire was to find a moment to slip away to a tavern. From the look Krem and the Bull had exchanged, he was not alone in his suspicion, and as they walked up to the Keep Cullen had noted that the Chargers kept Alistair between them, giving him no chance to wander off.

 

When they had reached the Keep, they’d found the courtyard was boiling with activity, Guards in full gear saddling horses and checking armour. Aveline had been easy to see, her height and her hair standing out in the crowd.

 

“You can tell Killeen we’re moving on Thompkinson _tonight_ ,” she’d told Cullen when he reached her. “I’ve word from the watchtower that his guests are on their way. If we intercept them, we can use their carriage as cover and get through the gates.”

 

“Want an extra few swords?” Cullen had asked.

 

Aveline had looked him up and down, and then looked beyond him to where the others stood. “Yes,” she said finally, “if you’re all capable of following orders. We’ve no idea what we’ll face in there.”

 

And so, moments later, they had all been mounted on horses from the Guards’ reserve and riding with three full squads of the Kirkwall Guard down through the city to the gates.

 

Cullen considered sending Alistair back with word for Killeen — he had little idea of the man’s ability in combat these days and so could most easily spare him — but he had the feeling that the delivery of any message would be considerably delayed if Alistair’s route back through Kirkwall took him past an inn or tavern.

 

He didn’t doubt the man’s good intentions, but nor did he doubt that for some, alcohol could sing as seductively as lyrium.

 

And he knew very well how insufficient good intentions could be.

 

_His hands shake almost all the time — all the time except for a few short hours after he takes his lyrium. A few hours is not long enough — if he were taking enough, as much as he used to, as much as he should be, the tremors would subside for days._

_But he is not taking enough. From moment to moment he can’t remember why he isn’t, can’t imagine why he thinks he knows better than the dispensary, why he pours half his vial out before he raises it to his lips, can’t believe he is choosing cold sweats and chills and constant, aching malaise of his own free will._

_He finds an old length of chain in the training yard, something come loose from one of the swinging targets, and hangs it above his desk where he sees it every time he enters his office. Chained, it reminds him. You serve because you are chained._

_In his chained service he has seen and not seen horrendous things done in the Gallows, things no free man would have stood for, told himself that it was his duty to continue to serve, to ameliorate Meredith’s abuses as best he could, to preserve what was good in the Order. How much of that was true and how much of that was his need for the lyrium that bound him, he can no longer judge, but he fears it is far more of the latter._

_He will be free._

_Some days, he forgets to remember to pour away part of his dose before taking it. His tolerance is weaker, now, than it should be, and the song runs through his blood like blue fire. Fatigue vanishes, uncertainty, the constant worry that he is not doing enough, **cannot** do enough, to protect the remaining mages and the citizens of Kirkwall as the city reels and struggles back towards normalcy. Filled with energy and strength, he strides through the streets, noticing every detail, issuing decisive orders — and at night, sleeps safely wrapped in lyrium’s blue embrace. _

_It is always harder to pour the next dose away, after those times when he forgets — knowing he will forget again, knowing that this struggle is ultimately futile. The little blue bottle mocks him._ What does it matter whether you take me now, or later? _it asks._ You’ll take me, in the end.

_Cullen looks at the chain above his desk, for hours sometimes, shivering and sweating. He remembers Killeen Hanmount’s scarred face, remembers that it took him two weeks to make sure she’d survived the injuries she took saving his life — and that was when his dose was far lower than it is these days. He remembers the apprentice dragged before Meredith and sentenced to Tranquillity for corrupting a Templar, sobbing that she’d said no, she’d said stop — remembers his own protests, his acquiescence when they were over-ruled._

_Still, the bottle calls._

_One night he finds himself walking the streets well after dark, alone — which is unutterably foolish, even in Hightown, even for a Templar in full possession of his strength and senses. He is in possession of neither, cannot even remember how he came to leave his office. Turns a corner cautiously, turns another and sees the Keep ahead._

_Safety — and a valid reason to be there. He strides in, tucking his thumbs inside his sword belt like a bravo to hide the tremor in his hands. Before he has the chance to ask, one of the Guards on the door jerks her chin in the direction of the barrack rooms. “She’s off-watch.”_

_Killeen is indeed off-watch, is engaged in a ferociously competitive game of Wicked Grace with a pile of coin in the centre of the table that could feed a family for a month. Cullen knows better than to interrupt, finds that in fact he doesn’t want to — is content to lean against the door frame and watch as Killeen looks from her cards to her opponent, face expressionless, grey eyes opaque, and bets. And bets again, and again, as silence spreads through the room, all eyes now on the two players left, on the pile of coin, the battered cards face down beneath Killeen’s hand, one finger tapping gently on their back._

_“She’s bluffing,” someone says. “She always does that with her hand when she bluffs.”_

 

_“Call,” says Killeen’s opponent, and for the first time since Cullen arrived, Killeen smiles, flips over her cards one by one to reveal the eight of swords, the nine of swords, the ten …_

_“Nug-fucker,” her opponent says, throwing his own hand down in disgust as the Squire and Queen of Swords make their appearance. “You’re witching those cards, I swear.”_

_Killeen grins more widely and gathers the coins to her, kissing one theatrically before shovelling them into her purse. “I’m just witching_ you _, Benwick. Maker’s balls, though, I thought you’d never pick up on that tell I spent all evening setting up.” She sees Cullen in the doorway and rises from her chair in one easy movement. “Duty calls, brothers and sisters. I’ll be back to take the rest of your money later.”_

_When she reaches him, Cullen searches for something to say, to explain his presence, and fails. “I was … that is … it, uh —”_

_Killeen searches his face, then takes his elbow and turns him toward the stairs that lead to Keep’s battlements. “It’s hot in here,” she says, although actually, it’s chill, and the sweat Cullen can feel on his brow has nothing to do with the temperature. “Let’s get some air.”_

_He does, in fact, feel better under the open sky. The starry expanse above them is comforting in its enormity. He finds the familiar shapes, the Boat, the Eagle … they have looked down on all of history unshaken by what they have seen. Surely, in their time, they have seen worse than what he has done — and they are unchanged._

_“Kill, I — I’m sorry, I forget what errand brought me here.”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” she says calmly. “Look, there’s the Owl. You hardly ever see it in Denerim. Funny to think that the stars can be the same, and different, depending on how far you go from home.”_

_“Yes,” Cullen says. “I miss the Sword. We used to watch for it to line up with a particular tree — that always meant the weather was about to turn warmer.”_

_“Honnleath, you said,” Killeen says. “Where is that?”_

_“Not very far from Redcliffe.”_

 

_She turns and grins at him.“Ah, the Hinterlands. Where men are men and nugs are nervous.”_

_It takes him a moment to understand what she means and then Cullen feels his cheeks burn. “_ Kill! _”_

_She continues relentlessly, “How do Redcliffe locals find nugs in long grass?”_

_Cullen gives her a sidelong glance. “I don’t think the answer is going to be, um…”_

_“Cu-llen,” she coaxes. “Play along.”_

_He sighs. “I don’t, um. Know. How_ do _Redcliffe locals find nugs in long grass?’_

_“Delightful!”_

_And for some reason it makes him laugh, although bestiality is hardly funny, and he’s almost sure Gareth used to tell a fairly similar joke to shock his Templar-obsessed little brother. The tiny chuckle startles him, hurts somewhere inside his chest, and he realises he can’t remember the last time he laughed._

_“How, um —” he starts, can’t remember exactly how it goes. “How do nug farmers keep from being … no, wait — they, ah. How do nug farmers —”_

_“Cullen, you’re_ hopeless _,” Killeen says, laughing._

_He’s used to maintaining his dignity, in the Gallows, on the street. Mockery is intolerable._

_And yet he finds he’s smiling, and it’s something else he can’t remember the last time he did._

_They talk about constellations, and nug jokes, and the places they respectively grew up, until Cullen is surprised to see the pale pink of dawn on the horizon, more surprised to realise it’s been hours since he thought of lyrium, of the cool blue soothing song._

_Walking back to the Gallows to the sound of the gulls rising off the morning tide, he thinks_ I’m free _._

But he had not been, not then.

 

It had not been a single choice, a moment, for him — nor would it be for Alistair.

 

So Cullen did not send the once-Templar former-Warden back to tell Killeen where they had gone, and why. Killeen would understand, he knew: if there was one reason she would always, utterly accept, it was _strategic necessity_. He regretted the anxiety it might cause her, and Mia, when he and the others did not return as expected, but that was a small matter set beside four additional swords and a powerful mage, as well as the dubious assistance of Alistair, when Killeen’s sister’s life might be in the balance.

 

They covered the ground quickly, although not as quickly as Inquisition troops would have. Cullen was reminded again of how much difference Dennet and his horses had made to their campaign, and made a mental note to thank the man again when they returned to Skyhold — _and perhaps persuade the Inquisitor to increase the breeding fund_.

 

Passing Thompkinson’s estate, they intercepted the carriage which was their target several miles up the road. Taking it was an easy matter: the occupants had clearly not expected hostilities, and were escorted by only a half-dozen guards. A few arrows, the ostentatious display of three squads, and a dazzling spark of lightning from Dorian’s staff, and Aveline was accepting the guards’ surrender and arresting the occupants of the carriage _for crimes unspecified at this time_.

 

Cullen smiled to himself, remembering his reaction the first time Killeen had made an arrest on that particular charge in his presence. _You can’t just arrest people and work out why later!_ he’d protested. A level look from clear grey eyes, a voice as dry as the Hissing Wastes: _If the Guard can hire me for_ other duties as required _and **then** tell me that includes fishing decomposing body parts out of cisterns in Justinian, I can arrest people because I feel like it, or because the day ends with a ‘y’. _

Cullen had been utterly at sea, in those early months after Anders’s terrorism and Meredith’s madness had changed everything. He’d known how to be a Templar: how to contain mages and, if he reached back past Kinloch, how to protect them — but that was not what had been called for in the smoking ruins of what had been Kirkwall.

 

Law and order had been Kirkwall’s most pressing need, and he had watched Killeen walk a delicate line between kindness and cruelty to create it, at first with disbelief and then, increasingly, respect and admiration.

 

_“You go at him hard,” she says, as they stride together toward the Keep’s cells. “I’ll pull you off.”_

_Cullen is confused. “Why?”_

_“So he thinks — Maker’s balls, Cullen! Just give him a hard time.”_

_It’s not a difficult instruction to follow. Cullen’s seen the bruises on the face of the whore who made the complain against Gregor Thompkinson, seen Killeen’s face after the woman showed her the injuries she wouldn’t reveal to a man. Giving him a hard time is the least of what Cullen wants to do, and when Thompkinson says something about_ Just a whore _Cullen’s temper, always chancy now he has reduced his lyrium dose, flares. He takes Thompkinson by the throat and knocks his head against the wall, pins him there and squeezes his windpipe until the man begins, perhaps, to understand how it feels to be utterly at the mercy of someone who means him no good at all …_

_“Let him go, now.” Killeen’s voice is low and calm, her hand on his arm. Thompkinson’s face is puce, his eyes bulging. “Let him go, Cullen. Let him go.”_

_It takes him longer than it should to force his fingers to relax, to step back and leave the slumping Thompkinson to Killeen’s calm and gentle questions._

_Later, as they walk back to the Keep, he tries to apologise for his loss of self-control. “That was — I don’t know much about — I’m not used to it, enforcing the law. I’m … not a Guard.”_

_“Don’t worry,” Kill says, calm and cheerful. “I’ll make you one.”_

_And she had, lessons given as much by example as by explicit instructions: how to coax information from a frightened witness and trick it from an reluctant one; how to reassure the fearful and intimidate the brash; how to watch for lies without appearing to …_

_Three years later, the morning after she’s agreed to come with him to the frozen roof of the world on what is probably a fool’s errand to stop the war raging between rebel mages and rogue Templars, she turns up at the door to his office, bleary-eyed. Cullen has woken cheerful, irrationally so given the magnitude of the task ahead of them. Killeen is not, hunched over the tea he’s poured her, inhaling the steam._

_“Captain Killeen has a nice ring to it,” he tells her, and she shakes her head._

_“That’s too much. There will be more experienced officers … Cullen, this is probably a bad idea. I’m not a soldier.”_

_“Don’t worry,” he tells her, refills her mug and adds honey, the way he knows she likes it. “I’ll make you one.”_

And now, back in Kirkwall, he found himself for the moment both soldier and Guard, preparing to take part in an armed assault on a fortified house — for the purpose of making an arrest.

A short consultation, and then the Iron Bull, Dorian, Aveline and Cullen himself clambered into the carriage, as the least likely to be mistaken for a hired escort. Krem and one of the Kirkwall Guards climbed onto the driver’s box, the others formed up around the carriage, and they were off, rattling along the road to the estate gates.

 

The Bull lounged in one corner, managing to take up fully half the carriage. Aveline sat beside him, bracing herself against the carriage’s jolts but still half thrown into his lap on the corners.

 

“It’s customary to buy me a drink first,” the Bull said after the third such moment.

 

“Watch your mouth or you’ll find yourself chained in a cell,” Aveline snapped.

 

“Not a disincentive, just so you know,” Dorian murmured, managing to balance himself as easily as if he sat on a chaise in an Orlesian salon.

 

Cullen loosened his sword in its scabbard and glanced out the window. The gates were approaching — from outside, he heard Krem’s voice, another voice answering.

 

_Either it works or it doesn’t._ If it didn’t, they’d be storming those iron gates against Maker only knew how many archers beyond them —

 

The gates creaked open and Cullen took a breath. _It worked._

 

The carriage swept through and up the gravel drive.


	51. In The Estate -  Krem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a fight.

_25 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

Krem flicked the whip across the carriage horses’ flanks and kept them at speed as they rounded the last corner of the drive, their thinly-disguised escort keeping pace. This kind of operation depended on timing — not _lying in wait in the dark, counting down the seconds_ timing, not precise co-ordination and to-the-minute plans, but speed, momentum, rushing through their opponents before anyone had the chance to notice that they weren’t exactly who they were supposed to be.

 

The front doors of the house were open, ready for the guests they were supposed to be. He noted _three stories, fortified, local stone_ as he hauled the horses to a halt with brutal efficiency. The carriage slewed sideways and fetched up against the steps to the door, one of the horses going down and thrashing against the traces. Krem dropped the reins, vaulted over the edge of the driver’s box and rolled as he landed, coming up with sword out and launching himself up the stairs.

 

Their target’s guards had realised something was wrong and were trying to close the doors. Krem realised he’d outstripped his allies as he slid through the narrowing gap, found himself for a moment alone and surrounded — took advantage of the confusion and cut two down, parried a return blow and ducked another — from outside, a mighty roar as the Chief burst out of the carriage and then a blast of flickering red and the swords against him wavered, Dorian’s fear spells taking effect.

 

The Chief hit the door, roaring a Qunari phrase that sounded like an oath from the depths of the Void if you didn’t know it translated as _how much for three sweet rolls, good man?_ Krem cut at the hamstrings of the one opponent still trying to hold against the invasion and she went down — the doors flew wide and reinforcements surged in.

 

“Glory-hound,” the Chief grunted at Krem, and sprinted for the stairs and the fleeing enemy, whirling his battle-axe around his head. Krem followed, feeling Grim at his shoulder — realised that this was not the Chargers, that he had no idea if their allies would be covering their backs — heard the Commander bellow _With me! With the Bull!_ and the pounding of heavy boots —

 

For a fight indoors, which Krem personally hated most of all, it turned out to be relatively easy. The guards were poorly trained and, from the speed with which they threw down their arms once a few of them had been killed, poorly paid. They were certainly not up to facing a Qunari in full flight, a Tevinter mage doing his best to show off to his lover, and the Commander of the Inquisition out to save the sister of the women he loved — certainly not backed up by three squads of reasonably well trained guards.

 

_A lot of protection for an empty house,_ Krem thought, checking the last room on the third floor. “Clear here, Chief.”

 

“Then where the fuck are they?” the Bull rumbled. “If we’re in the wrong house, this is going to be embarrassing.”

 

“Spread out,” the red-headed Guard Captain ordered. “Search _everywhere_.”

 

It was Dorian who found it, his discovery communicated to the others in a stream of Tevene invective, some of it new to even Krem.

 

“What does _fasta vass_ mean?” the Guard Captain asked Krem as they ran down the stairs toward the source of the cursing.

 

“Do you have a mother?” Krem asked, catching the banister and swinging around the corner.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you have a goat?”

 

“No!”

 

“Then it doesn’t apply.”

 

Dorian was standing in front of the fireplace in one of the downstairs reception rooms. For a moment Krem couldn’t understand why the mage was so agitated, and then Dorian swept a hand over the mantle and arcane writing lit up in an arch above it.

 

“Fuck me dead,” the Bull said from behind Krem. “Another one.”

 

“Another _what_?” the Guard Captain asked.

 

“It’s a kind of lock,” Dorian said. “We’ve seen them before. Generally _not_ used by nice, hospitable people.”

 

“How do we open it?” the Commander demanded.

 

“We don’t, Commander,” Dorian said. “Not until the Inquisitor is here. Whatever is behind this, the door took enormous power to set up. Even if we could open it, we don’t want to deal with whatever’s behind it.”

 

“Dorian —” Commander Cullen said.

 

“One in Redcliffe Castle, in the future,” Dorian said. “The rest in the temple in the Forbidden Oasis. _Not_ pleasant places to visit, Commander.”

 

“Y’know,” said Alistair from the door, and Krem realised without much surprise that he’d found time during the search to appropriate a bottle from Thompkinson’s supply, “Silly to lock a door you can’t unlock.”

 

“I rather think the point is we don’t _want_ to unlock this door,” Dorian said. “Not until we know what’s behind it.”

 

Alistair wandered around the room, peering in the corners. “Tha’s the point, innit? It all gets scary and let’s wait for the Hero.” He hiccoughed a little. “The Inquisitor. The Champion. Fuck difference it makes.”

 

“Alistair,” Commander Cullen said. “I know —”

 

“You don’t, acherlly,” Alistair said. He lifted a book from the bookshelf, and then swept them all to the floor. “Yours didn’t die. Makes a difference, if you din’t know. Can’t wait f’r anyone.”

 

“Sorry, Chief,” Krem said quietly.

 

The Bull shook his head. “Everyone being alive is more important than everyone being sober.”

 

“It’ll be here somewhere.” Alistair felt along the back of the bookshelf. “Tha’s how theshe things work, usually. Jus’ have t’ poke around a bit and — aha!” He turned, beaming, a piece of stone in his hand. “You see?” He lurched to the fireplace and thrust the piece of stone against the wall, frowning when it simply skittered off.

 

“I am,” Dorian said, taking the fragment from him, “going to regret this. Probably briefly.”

 

He traced an arch above the mantle again and as the arcane lettering lit up, pushed the piece of stone Alistair had found into the centre.

 

A flicker of light, and then the lettering died.

 

“Five more,” Dorian said resignedly.

 

They spread out to search. One piece of the key was found in the kitchen by a Kirkwall Guard; Commander Cullen found another in an upstairs study; Grim brought one wordlessly to Dorian — finally the key was assembled.

 

“May I just say —” Dorian said, fingers hovering over the lock.

 

“Objections noted,” the Guard Captain said. “Get on with it.”

 

Krem glanced at the Bull as the archway beyond the fireplace began to open. _Is this it, Chief_?

 

The Bull winked at him, and charged into the revealed doorway, axe swinging, yelling something about _savoury lamb pasties_ at the top of his lungs.

 

“Horns up!” Krem bellowed, and followed.

 

A long, winding staircase, spilling them out into a poorly lit corridor — wide enough to allow them to cover each other’s backs, archways leading off — Krem paused to test the door, found they were locked, and ignored them, following the Chief down the central corridor —

 

A cluster of soldiers, better equipped than the ones upstairs — _Better trained, too_ , Krem thought as the Iron Bull hit them, axe whirling, and fewer fell than he’d expected. He took care of the nearest, Grim sliding in to the gap, blades flashing — clang of a blow against a shield and Commander Cullen was in the fray, driving two opponents back and opening up the group’s flank —

 

Shouts from either side of them, allies behind, enemies ahead. The Kirkwall Guards were with them now, bottlenecked by the corridor, and together they charged into the last knot of soldiers before them, a tight, ugly melee fight now, the weight of numbers on their side —

 

“Mage!” the Bull bellowed in warning, and lightning flashed — a hard sting that left Krem’s right arm numb and useless and leapt, sparking, to the Guard beside him — the Chief was through the armed men now and pounding towards the robed figure at the end of the corridor.

 

Krem scooped his sword from the ground with his left hand and followed. The Chief charged, axe high, and Krem stopped hard, one heel skidding on the cobblestones, letting his other knee give beneath him — flung his sword in a long, low arc — saw it slip past the Chief’s side and land point-first in the mage’s throat—

 

“Good work,” the Chief said, standing over the mage’s body.

 

“I’ve done my knee,” Krem said from the floor. “And that fucker fucked up my fucking arm.”

 

The Bull hauled him to his feet. He took Krem’s right hand in his own, the massive palm making Krem’s own look like a child’s in comparison. “Make a fist.”

 

Krem tried, saw his fingers twitch, no more.

 

“You’ll be fine,” the Bull said. “Any movement at all, it’ll wear off. It’s always _something_ with you, isn’t it.”

 

“Yeah, sorry, Chief.”

 

Hard embrace around his shoulders, strong arm around his waist. “So you should be. Do better, next time.”

 

“Yes, Chief.”

 

The Bull helped him back along the corridor, into a knot of Kirkwall Guards. “I don’t know if it was Thompkinfuckson,” the Bull said, “but there’s a dead mage up the corridor, and no-one else.”

 

“Thompkinson wasn’t a mage,” the Guard Captain said.

 

“Well, then, it’s someone else,” the Bull said. “Personally, I don’t give a shit, so long as all the people hurling lightning toward me have stopped moving.”

 

“That’s not what you said last night,” Dorian said.

 

“We need keys for these doors,” Commander Cullen said, ignoring Dorian with, Krem thought, a certain effort.

 

“Grim!” the Chief bellowed. “Front and centre!”

 

Krem’s knee throbbed insistently as Grim worked the locks. If Stitches had been there, he would have asked him to look at it, but he had no idea the quality of the Kirkwall Guards’ medical staff and no desire to submit himself to the care — and possible questions — of some quack, so he gritted his teeth and ignored it.

 

Behind one door was an apparently empty room: behind the other, what seemed to be a barracks mess. Empty, but a pot still bubbled over the fire — a flicker of movement, a door still swinging from a rapid exit — the Chief charged that way yelling, Krem forced by his knee to let others take his place at the Chief’s side — the crash of shattering timbers and then piercing female screams.

 

“Found them!” the Bull called.

 

Krem limped that way, a giant horned Qunari waving an axe around not being the most reassuring sight he could imagine for a group of prisoners.

 

The women were all young, all mostly pretty — apparently unharmed, from what Krem could see — dressed well enough, with no sign of being on short rations for long. They cowered on the other side of the room to the Bull, a few of the braver ones holding objects they must have snatched up to defend themselves, standing between the Bull and the others.

 

“All right, ladies, you’re safe now,” Krem said. “We’re the Inquisition, and the Kirkwall Guard is here too. You can put down the … vase, miss. No-one’s going to hurt you.”

 

It took the appearance of Aveline to persuade the women that they were not, in fact, under attack, but being rescued.

 

_Something’s not right_ , Krem thought as the women were led out through the common room and into the corridor beyond. _That magical door up there wasn’t being opened every day — how did they get food down here? And how did they plan to bring them up, or bring people down?_

 

“Chief …” he said quietly.

 

“Yeah,” the Bull answered. “Behind that first door. False wall.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Red! Speed it up a bit.”

 

Guard Captain Aveline looked at the Bull, followed his gaze to the door of apparently empty room, and nodded, hand dropping to her sword-hilt. “Get these civilians out of here,” she said sharply.

 

Commander Cullen was going from one dark haired woman to the next, asking their names.

 

“Roll call upstairs, Cullen,” Aveline said, and he paused, then nodded, and started helping the Guards herd the women toward the stairs. Some were so petrified and shocked they had to be half-carried, but eventually they were all out, leaving the Chargers and one squad of Guards in the cellar.

 

“So,” the Bull rumbled, “do we want the advantage of surprise, or do we want to leave quietly and pretend we didn’t notice the false wall?”

 

“Blight take leaving quietly,” Aveline said, strode into the cell and kicked in the wall.


	52. In The Cellar - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen learns something.

_25 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

_Well, that was anti-climactic,_ Cullen thought, as two of Kirkwall’s finest hauled Gregor Thompkinson up the stairs to the main house.

 

Whoever had built the estate had clearly been a long-standing member of Kirkwall’s nobility, with the sharply-honed sense of paranoia that went with the position. The enchanted doorway was only _one_ of the secret entrances to the cellar. Another had been behind the false wall, which under the impact of Aveline’s boot had revealed itself to be no more than chips of stone mortared onto a hinged wooden pallet.

 

It was to this second exit Thompkinson had fled when they’d opened the enchanted door, leaving his guards and his mage ally to face the music. Unfortunately for him, in his panic he’d dropped both his lantern and the key to the solid oaken door on the other side of the hidden room. Aveline had simply stalked over to the plump, dishevelled figure grovelling on the floor, trying to find the key by touch, and kicked him hard enough in the backside to knock him face-first into the wall.

 

The oaken door revealed another set of stairs, the lack of dust showing they were well-used. The Bull led the way up them, Cullen close behind, the rest following — but the stairs simply let out into an outbuilding used, by the look of it, to store supplies for Thompkinson’s dungeon as well as to shelter his access to it.

 

They returned down the stairs, to find that Aveline had already extracted from Thompkinson the information that there were no other guards closer than the gatehouse, and no other girls held elsewhere on the premises.

 

“I didn’t even need to hit him,” Aveline said with disgust as two of her men seized the prisoner and began to drag him toward the stairs.

 

“Pity,” the Bull rumbled.

 

“Exactly,” Aveline said tightly. “Did you see the room on the second floor, at the back?”

 

“Yes,” the Bull said. Cullen raised an eyebrow, and the Qunari shook his massive head. “You don’t want to know. Believe me.”

 

Back in the foyer of the house, Aveline sent a squad to take care of the gate guards with instructions to send a rider to the city as soon as it was clear for wagons to transport the women they’d freed. Then she turned to where they huddled together, eyeing the armed men around them with suspicion and fear. “You’re all safe,” she said. “The man who did this is under arrest. Those of his guards who survived the fight are, as well. We’re arranging to take you back to the city, where you’ll be fed, and sheltered, and give your statements. But first — which one of you is Jean Hanmount?”

 

A small silence, and then a voice with the unmistakable flat vowels of Denerim said, “Who wants to know?”

 

For some reason — _probably the brandy he appropriated —_ Alistair seemed to find that extremely funny. Cullen ignored his giggles, and took a step toward the women. “Jean. Thomas is safe.”

 

“Of course he’s safe,” Jean — _for it had to be Jean, with that accent, without a question as to who Thomas might be —_ said, stepping forward. Her resemblance to Killeen was slight, but there: the features more delicate, but the same wide flexible mouth, and those unmistakable eyes. “He’s been adopted by a rich family.”

 

“Ah —” Cullen paused. _Better to break it gently, a piece at a time_. “No, he … hasn’t been adopted. Killeen is taking care of him, until you —”

 

“ _Killeen_?” Jean said incredulously. “What’s _Killeen_ doing with my son?”

 

“Resh-cuing him fr’m blood mages in Darktown, f’r one,” Alistair said from his position propped against the wall.

 

“Blood mages?” Jean said, eyes shocked and wide.

 

Cullen’s voice rode over hers. “ _Darktown_?”

 

“Not v’ry good blood mages,” Alistair said with a careless wave of his hand. “Sub-par sac-rasm.”

 

Cullen crossed the room without thinking about it and took the other man by the upper arm. “Darktown?” he demanded again.

 

“Ouch,” Alistair said. “Yes, you know — twisty tunnels, bad smell, people going stabbity-stab. Darktown.”

 

“Didn’t mention that, did she,” Aveline said from behind Cullen, sounding amused.

 

“No.” Cullen released Alistair and the man sagged back against the wall. “No, she did not.”

 

“Charged off like she was the Champion herself, only even Hawke was never reckless enough to go into those tunnels alone,” Aveline said.

 

“Alone,” Cullen said flatly. “In Darktown.”

 

“She had me!” Alistair protested. “Not eniter— _entirely_ useless. Once I caught up.”

 

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair. “Maker’s _balls_.”

 

“Stop talking about my blighted sister,” Jean said sharply, “and go back to the bit about the blood mages.”

 

Cullen blinked, trying to find the right words past the mental image of Killeen disappearing headlong down one of the twisting staircases that led down into the under-city, the bright glimmer of her mail and the smooth cap of her hair vanishing forever into the dark … he felt a clutch of near-panic as if she were, at that instant, making that insanely foolish decision, a surge of utter fury at her recklessness, her carelessness with a life that meant to very much to him.

 

“Madame de Follette sold him,” Aveline said bluntly. “Like she sold you. For different uses, but the same end.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Jean lifted her chin haughtily. “I wasn’t sold, I was _hired_.”

 

“Most employers don’t lock their staff in the cellar,” Aveline said.

 

“That was for our safety!” Jean said, and there was a murmur of agreement from a few of the others. “ _We_ weren’t locked in! _You_ were locked out!” Her eyes narrowed. “And how do we know you’re really the Kirkwall Guard, anyway?”

 

“She is, Jean,” one of the women said nervously. “That’s Captain Aveline.”

 

“Narcissa, is that you?” Aveline asked, and a small, blonde girl came forward hesitantly. “Flames, Narcissa, I didn’t even know you were missing! You mother said you went to your aunt’s.”

 

Narcissa nodded. “That’s what we told everybody. When I —” Her hands rested on her stomach. “Captain, my little girl — Madame de Folette had her adopted, too.”

 

“We found some children,” Aveline said, “some of them girls. They’re being looked after. We’ll take you to see them.”

 

Narcissa nodded, eyes filling with tears.

 

“If you think I’m going anywhere with you after you _break_ in here and _kill_ people,” Jean said, “then —”

 

“Shut up,” Aveline said bluntly. “I’ve had your sister turning my city upside down looking for you and some of my people have been hurt in the process. You’re coming back to Kirkwall, willingly, or bound and gagged and tossed in the back of a wagon. I don’t actually care which.”

 

“I don’t think I like —”

 

Aveline turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Jean with her mouth open. Cullen found himself drawn along beside the Guard Captain, her grip firm on his elbow. “Flames,” she said, “as stubborn as Killeen but without the brains. The gate should be clear by now. Take your associates and head back to Kirkwall, let Killeen know her sister’s safe and she’ll be able to see her tomorrow.”

 

“When were you going to tell me about Darktown?” Cullen asked.

 

“I’m not her mother, nor yours,” Aveline said, “so watch your tone. I appreciate your help tonight — that Vint needs his leg looked at, by the way — but if you’ve got something to say, say it to Killeen.”

 

_I have something to say, all right_.

 

Cullen gathered the others, located mounts from among those ridden in by the Guards, and they started back toward the city. The borrowed horses were nowhere near the quality of mounts from Master Dennet’s stable, and Cullen felt his anger grow with each jolting mile, each frustrating interval of walking to spell the horses. In the first, Cullen reined his mount back beside Alistair’s and extracted the rest of the details from him — details which did nothing to cool his temper.

 

He _needed_ to see Killeen, alive and unharmed, to prove that his memory of her striding out the door to the stables, face glowing with the anticipation of being reunited with Firefly, was truer than his imagination of her taking a knife in the back in the dim nightmare of Darktown — needed to hear her agree with him that she had been unutterably, unbearably foolish, that she would never, ever make such a mistake again — and the horses, the Blighted ill-conditioned, under-bred horses, could not take the pace his heart demanded.

 

The Bull tried to engage him in conversation once or twice, when the pace of the horses allowed, but Cullen gave only the tersest of answers and eventually the Qunari gave up.

 

The rest of the ride passed in silence, until finally the city walls loomed ahead. A further infuriating delay as the gate guards dithered over opening them at such a late hour, the Bull’s massive horned shape no doubt contributing to their reluctance.

 

_Andraste give me strength_. “Light, Dorian,” he snapped, and the mage unslung his staff and raised it above his head, the orb at the end brightening until Cullen could see his shadow cast against the gates as clearly as if it were full day. He stood in the stirrups and turned so the guards could not but help have a clear view of his face. “I am Commander Ser Cullen Rutherford!” he bellowed. “Open in the name of the Inquisition!”

 

“That’s him, all right,” he heard one guard mutter to the others. “Knight-Commander Cullen.”

 

“Your fame precedes you,” Dorian said, letting the light fade. “Or follows, in this case, I suppose.”

 

“If it opens this gate, I little care which,” Cullen snapped.

 

Bolts scraped, the gates creaked open. As soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, Cullen spurred his weary horse through, leaving the others to catch up as they could. Hooves clattering on the cobbles, the Guard horse made a last weary effort and raised a jolting trot along the curve of the street that all vehicles and animals had to take to reach Hightown, coming to a halt outside the Hawke Estate when Cullen drew back on the reins.

 

He swung down and hammered on the door. “Dalish! Rocky! Open!”

 

Hoof-beats behind him — a glance showed him horns, the flicker of the wall-sconces lighting Dorian’s unmistakable profile beside the Bull. Cullen turned back to the door and pounded on it again. “Stitches! _Open this Blighted door!_ ”

 

The grille slid back with a clang and then he heard the bolts, the key — the second the lock snicked open he thrust the door open and strode in.

 

Killeen stood there, mail coat half-unbuckled, sword belted at her waist, hair dishevelled and a crease from her pillow tracking sideways across her cheek to bisect the pale scars of the abomination’s claws.

 

_Alive, unharmed_ — and yet the irrational fear that had dogged him on the road didn’t lift, as if she might be but an illusion of the woman he loved, some creature of the Fade while Killeen herself lay somewhere beneath Kirkwall’s streets, life spilled by some footpad’s knife —

 

She was but an arm’s length from him and yet he didn’t dare raise a hand to touch her in case his fingers met nothing but air.

 

Then Killeen moved, grabbing the collar of his coat and pulling her toward him. Cullen covered her hand with his own, stepping into her, and her fingers beneath his were warm and strong and _real._ He seized her in his arms, crushing her to him to feel the solidity of her body despite the armour that encased him, thinking _this is real, this is true, she’s alive, damn her for a Fade-touched fool —_ her lips were warm and soft beneath his, her mouth tasted of wine and spice as he kissed her hard, plundering her mouth …

 

She arched against him, tongue stroking his — and then tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth from hers, glaring at him.

 

“Where in the Fade have you been?” she snapped.

 

 

 


	53. In The Foyer - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Also, scuffling between partners.

_25th - 26th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

 

Killeen took hold of the hair at the nape of Cullen’s neck and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth from hers. “Where in the Fade have you been?” she snapped.

 

She expected him to look apologetic, or at the worst, confused, as he realised he had forgotten to send word and left her to worry over which of Kirkwall’s dangers he and the others had met with.

 

She didn’t expect his eyes to narrow, his mouth to set in cold anger. His bruisingly hard embrace loosened and he grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from his hair, stepping back. “Your sister is safe and unharmed,” he said crisply.

 

Killeen gaped at him. “What? Where?”

 

Cullen stripped off first one gauntlet, then the other, and flung them on the table. “With Aveline and several squads of the Guard, at Thompkinson’s estate. You’ll be able to see her tomorrow.”

 

“That’s where you’ve been?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen snapped. “That’s where I’ve been.”

 

Behind him, Krem and the Iron Bull came through the door, the Charger’s lieutenant limping badly. “Stitches!” the Bull bellowed. “Get your ass down here!”

 

“My ass is already here,” Stitches said from the stairs, “and if you wake the baby with that bellowing Mistress Mia will tan _your_ ass for you.”

 

“Is anyone else hurt?” Killeen asked, looking past them to the door.

 

“No,” Krem said. “They’re seeing to the horses.”

 

“It wasn’t particularly challenging,” Cullen said icily. “Not like, _for example,_ Darktown.”

 

“Not everyone is as clumsy as Krem,” the Iron Bull said. He put one massive arm around his Lieutenant’s waist and lifted the man bodily off his feet, carrying him to the nearest chair.

 

“You’re welcome for saving your life, Chief,” Krem said, wincing as Stitches felt his knee.

 

“I had it handled,” the Bull rumbled.

 

“Yeah, looked like — ah!” Krem’s head went back as a hiss of pain escaped his clenched teeth.

 

“But Jean’s all right?” Killeen asked.

 

“Amazingly, seeing as she seems to have as little good sense as her sister,” Cullen snapped.

 

It took Killeen a second to parse that and realise the insult. “And what by Andraste’s tits is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

“When were you going to tell me?” Cullen demanded. “ _Were_ you going to tell me?”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“ _Darktown_!” Cullen roared in the voice that could make terrified recruits more frightened of disobeying his orders than of the enemy in front of them. He closed the distance between them, eyes blazing, and took her by the shoulders. “You! _Alone_!” he snarled, punctuating each word with a shake that rattled her teeth.

 

 _Well, shit_.

 

Upstairs, Thomas began to wail.

 

And Killeen found herself suddenly as utterly furious as Cullen. “Now look what you’ve done,” she snarled, breaking his grip on her with a sharp twist and pushing him away hard enough to make him stagger. She turned on her heel and strode for the stairs.

 

Fast footsteps behind her, hand on her arm, and Cullen hauled her around to face him again. “ _I’m not finished_ ,” he said icily.

 

Killeen dug her fingers beneath his thumb, grasped it and bent it back until his fingers loosened and flung his hand away from her. She matched his tone. “ _I am.”_

As she took the last of the stairs two at a time, Killeen heard the Bull’s rumbling voice saying something about _two copper_ , heard Krem say _no bet_ — she slammed into the room where Thomas was crying, crossed to the bed and bent over him. “What is it?” she asked him impatiently.

 

The smell gave her the answer. She found clean clouts, stripped and wiped the infant and re-swaddled him, throwing the filthy used cloth into the bucket by the bed.

 

The baby still grizzled. Killeen washed her hands at the basin, sniffed her fingers to be sure they were clean, and picked Thomas up. Cradling him in the crook of one arm, she stuck a finger in his mouth as Mia had done.

 

He chewed on it with painful enthusiasm — but at least the complaining stopped.

 

“Is he all right?” Cullen asked.

 

Killeen turned. He was leaning against the door-frame, silhouetted by the torches in the hall. His face was in shadow: she couldn’t read his expression. “Fine,” she said. “Better than if I’d left him in Darktown, that’s for fucking sure.”

 

She couldn’t read his expression, but she knew his body as she knew her own, and she saw his shoulders straighten, his whole body tighten with anger.

 

Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

 

Killeen let Thomas chew her finger until he slipped back into sleep, then laid him back down and cat-footed it out the door, leaving it ajar so if he woke again, his cries would be heard. She hesitated in the hall a moment, considering whether or not to go downstairs and spend the rest of the night in one of the overstuffed chairs in the Champion’s living room.

 

 _To the Void with **that** , _she decided at last. _Andraste’s frilly knickers if I’m going to wake up with a cramp in my neck while Cullen sleeps comfortably in the Champion’s bedroom._

_Not after I spent an hour propping the bed back up._

Lifting her chin defiantly, she strode down the corridor and shoved the bedroom door open.

 

It was an anticlimax to discover the room empty. Cullen’s armour stood on the stand, his cloak tossed on a chair. From the adjacent room, Killeen heard water running.

 

Deliberately, she turned her back and began to unfasten her mail coat. The water stopped, and she _knew_ when Cullen came back into the bedroom, could feel his gaze on her back as clearly as if his hand rested flat between her shoulder-blades.

 

She ignored him and continued to get ready for bed. Armour once more hung on the second stand she’d dragged in from the armoury that evening, sword set ready by the door beside the shield she had not bothered to pick up when the pounding on the door had woken her, she hesitated a moment longer, taking extra care to adjust the hang of the sleeves of her coat, checking each buckle for wear … then there was no longer any plausible reason for her to delay, and she was forced to turn.

 

Cullen was still in the doorway to the water-closet, watching her. Killeen’s gaze slid past him, and she strode to the bed as if he were not there.

 

So convincingly had she pretended to herself that she was alone that when he spoke, she was startled. “Were you going to tell me at all?”

 

“No,” Killeen said honestly. “Not if I could help it.”

 

“Why not?” Cullen asked. “Because you knew how bloody stupid you’d been?”

 

“Because I knew you’d be like _this_!” she snapped, turning to face him. “Maker’s balls, Cullen, I had my work cut out to get you to let me even _train_ again.”

 

He took a step toward her, another. “If I’d known what you’d get up to I would never —”

 

“Get up to what?” Killeen asked. “Saving a child from a horrible death? Like that? You really thought I’d _ever_ let a nest of maleficar slaughter a baby without raising a hand? You would have done the same!”

 

“Not _alone_!” Cullen said. Another step, until he was an arm’s length from her, eyes hooded, face hard and cold as marble. “Maker’s _breath_ , Kill, are you so far out of your mind as to think you can take on a nest of blood mages _in Darktown_ single-handed and walk away afterwards?”

 

It was on her lips to say _yes, and I **did** , _but …

 

The truth choked her, the clear, cold memory of knowing just how bad the odds were of her seeing sunrise again, sure that she was about to give up every chance of seeing Cullen’s beautiful face again in trade for buying enough time for Aveline and the Guards to reach Thomas in time …

 

“No,” she said quietly. “I thought — at the least, I’d slow them. Clear a path for Aveline.”

 

“You went down there not expecting to come back,” Cullen said, low and intense. “And what? I’d have no choice but to move on and find someone _better suited_ to being a mother? Sweet Maker!” He took her by the shoulders. Instinctively, Killeen backed a step away, another when he followed her, fetched up against the wall. He leaned into her, pinning her, claimed her mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss, pulled away enough to snarl against her lips, “Stop it, Kill. Stop making decisions for me. Stop deciding what’s best for me without paying any attention to what I say. _Stop it_.”

 

The hard muscle of his body against hers, the anger in his eyes, his breath hot against her face — Killeen felt her pulse pick up, squirmed until she could get her hands against his chest and push him back. “That’s not what I was doing! I couldn’t _leave_ him there —”

 

“You could have waited for Aveline,” Cullen said, giving ground, gaze still steady and hard on her face.

 

Killeen tried and failed to meet it. “They could have killed him in the time it took her to rouse out the Guard!” she said, turning away. She took a step toward the door, meaning only to put distance between them, took another, and then suddenly thought _this was a mistake, I should have slept downstairs, I **will** sleep downstairs, and fuck it all, I need a drink, _ and strode to the doorway.

 

Her hand was on the doorknob when Cullen reached past her, hand flat on the door, holding it shut. “Don’t run,” he said fiercely.

 

Killeen jerked on the doorknob futilely, refusing to turn and look at him. “I’ll do what I like.”

 

Cullen was so close she could feel the heat of his body through her shirt, could smell the familiar scent of sweat and metal polish, lamp-oil and the hair pomade he didn’t think anyone knew he used. Her gut tightened with the nearness of him, fight-or-flight instincts sending adrenaline racing through her veins.

 

“Why is it that you only run from the fights that _matter_?” Cullen growled.

 

 _Fight_ won the debate. Killeen turned to face him, deliberately stepping closer. “I have never run from anything in my life!”

 

“Maybe you should learn,” Cullen said, “before you get yourself _killed_.”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen!” Killeen slid past him, seized her shield from its rest by the door and raised it between them. She rapped it hard with her knuckles. “This — _this_ is who we are. We stand in between the vulnerable and those who’d harm them, and we take the blows that others can’t, and one day one of those blows isn’t going to be survivable and that’s just how it is. Maker’s balls, do you think either of us will make old bones?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said fiercely. “ _Yes_ , Kill.”

 

“Then you’re a bigger fool than you were born,” Killeen said.

 

“How can you guard others when you don’t guard yourself?” Cullen asked. With a speed that made her gasp, he seized her shield and yanked it from her grasp, flinging it aside to fall clanging to the floor. She took a step back but not fast enough: he had her by the shoulders, jerking her close to him, releasing her only long enough to take her face between his hands. “Promise me,” he said, fingers hard on her jaw. “Promise me you’ll guard yourself as if it’s _my_ life at stake.”

 

“Cullen …”

 

“Promise me, or by Andraste, I’ll tie you hand and foot and haul you back to Skyhold face down over my saddle-bow and give orders you’re not to be allowed out of the gates again.” His hands dropped to her shoulders and he gave her a hard shake. “ _Promise_ me, Kill. You swore you’d come back to me, that you’d always come back. Promise to guard yourself so that’s true.”

 

“I don’t know how!” The words burst out without her willing them. “I can’t _fight careful_ , Cullen, I never have —”

 

“You’ve never taken such foolish risks before, either,” Cullen said.

 

“Only on _your orders_ ,” she snapped. “Or have you forgotten?”

 

The blow went home: she saw it in his eyes. “I ordered you to hold an objective on which _the fate of Thedas_ depended.”

 

“You’ll spend my life as _you_ chose but I can’t choose to spend it as I wish?”

 

Cullen seized on the admission. “You knew. You _knew,_ when you went down there, that it was likely to be your death.” He paused, fingers digging in to her shoulders, forehead leaning against hers. “And it _would_ have been, if not for the blind luck of Alistair seeing you and following.” A long silence, both of them breathing hard with anger, and then he said, “You’re stood down.”

 

“You can’t —”

 

“I can and I am. And I would whoever you were to me, Killeen. You’re not fit for duty and you won’t stand so much as a noonday watch until you are.”

 

As if it belonged to someone else, Killeen saw her hand lift.

 

She backhanded Cullen across the mouth.

 

His head jerked back, blood blooming on his lip. He caught her next blow on his forearm, seized her wrist and tried to turn her. Killeen had taught him that one, though, and she went with the movement just far enough to drive one booted foot down on his instep and then swept his feet out from under him, breaking his grip as he went down.

 

Cullen seized her around the waist as he fell and bore her to the floor with him. On the ground, his greater weight was more of an advantage than her edge in speed and Killeen tried to squirm free of his grasp and get to her feet. She had managed to get to one knee when Cullen grappled with her again, dragging her back down and flipping her onto her face, pinning her down. He captured first one wrist, then the other, held her there.

 

“Let me go!” she snarled, trying to dislodge him.

 

“Are you going to hit me again?”

 

“Fuck, yes!”

 

“Then no,” Cullen panted. “I don’t think I will. Let’s talk about this, reasonably.”

 

“Where you reasonably tell me how wrong I am about everything?” Killeen snapped. His body pressed her into the floor, his breath hot on the back of her neck, hands hard on her wrists. She bucked and squirmed, but could get no leverage, the hardwood boards beneath her scraping her skin through her shirt, breasts pressed hard and painfully against the floor, splinters biting her cheek and neck.

 

“I think it’s reasonable —” Cullen said, paused as she managed to get enough purchase to kick him in the shins. “I think it’s reasonable that I don’t want you to die. Can we agree on that?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said reluctantly.

 

“And given that, I think it’s also reasonable that I’d like you to do your best not to die stupidly, for no good reason.”

 

“Oh and you decide what _good reasons_ are?” Killeen snapped. She arched her back, trying to get purchase to dislodge him, but his weight was immovable on her, his heavy, strong body covering hers, flexing and giving with her movements. “Andraste’s tits!” She tried to lift him again, with her lower body this time, where she had a slight advantage of strength, pressed up with her hips, anger building and building in her belly — felt him move a little, tried again, and again, pushing into the floor to get leverage and then up against him, panting with effort —

 

His knee slipped between hers, weight hard on her rump, immovable, and when she pushed up against him the next time, frustratingly, she only drove against the hard muscles of his thigh. Cullen pressed her into the floor, leg spreading hers wider, as she bucked and struggled and writhed beneath him.

 

Abruptly, he flipped her over, pinning her again before she could wriggle free. “Admit it,” he said, flushed and breathless from their struggle. “Admit you were wrong to go down there, admit —” Killeen worked her knee between his and Cullen raised himself away from her a little before she could knee him in the balls. “Killeen!” He turned to deny her an easy target, his thigh hard between her legs.

 

A throb of hot anger went through her like fire through dry straw.

 

She hooked her leg around his, trying for the leverage to throw him off her, arched her back and heaved, but failed to dislodge him. She tried again, again, _again_ , panting, wrapped both her legs around his and arched upwards, breasts aching as she pressed against the hard muscles of his chest, the pulse of rage deep in her belly growing and burning with each failed attempt to dislodge him, trying harder, faster —

 

Realised that the tension in her gut was comprised as much of lustful need as of anger, that the waves of heat rolling through her body were pleasure rather than rage, that she was aching and tingling and throbbingly wet, and humping his leg like an over-excited dog —

 

Realised, too, that she could feel his cock hot and hard against her thigh, that his breath was coming faster than the effort to restrain her could explain, that the face above hers was flushed, his eyes dark and half-closed with desire — that he was moving in a rhythm that matched hers, panting in her ear, grinding urgently against her —

 

She gasped, arched against him and then again, finding the point of friction that — _Maker, yes_ —

 

And then Cullen’s mouth was on hers in a hard, greedy kiss, tasting of blood. Killeen ran her tongue over the trace of her blow, scraped it with her teeth and heard him hiss, her hips rolling up and against him without conscious thought as she rode his thigh faster, harder, _yes, there, yes —_

 

Cullen let go of her wrist and took hold of her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to release his lip, lowered his mouth to her neck and kissed her beneath her jaw hard enough to send a pulse of pleasure and pain straight from that point of contact to between her legs.

 

He released her abruptly, seized her by the waist and raised her as he sat back on his knees, dragging her into his lap. Killeen gasped, rocking against him — then almost cried out at the sudden cessation of that utterly necessary pressure and friction as he lifted her away from him. His hands were on her belt, tugging, fumbling — she joined her efforts to his and the buckle came free. Cullen pushed her breeches down, slid a hand between her legs and —

 

She groaned, clutching at his shoulders as his fingers slid inside her, and drove her hips down, wanting, _needing_ … his fingers curled, seeking the spot that, _oh, Maker_ , seeking it and finding it and sending shocks running along her nerves, making her limbs jerk and twitch involuntarily and _there, yes, **there** … _

_Not enough, not enough, not enough —_ she pulled up and away from him, tore at his belt in turn, cursed as the blasted thing refused to come loose — it gave, and _oh_ , the velvety hardness of his cock, twitching in her grip, the sounds he made as she stroked him — she fit him to her, lowered herself just a little —

 

With a growl, Cullen thrust up, pulling her down at the same time, sheathing himself to the hilt with a single urgent buck of his hips and Killeen’s back arched, _deeper, deeper, more, yes_ — Cullen’s hands were hard on her hips as he drove into her again and again with an urgency and force that sent deep pulses of heat through her whole body, his rasping breaths, a sound that might have been her name …

 

She took his face between her hands, bit his bloody lip again and when his mouth opened in a gasp of pain, drove her tongue into his mouth, licking deep, setting her rhythm to his pace as he thrust up into her, taking him as he took her, one hand tangled in his hair to hold his head back and still.

 

The approaching wave of her climax was coming closer, closer, and she leaned back again, watching him as it loomed over her like a tidal wave huge enough to blot out the sky, to blot out everything but Cullen’s face, flushed and gleaming with sweat, eyes half-closed and mouth slack, Cullen’s voice in wordless moans, Cullen’s cock hard and hot within her …

 

The wave crashed over and around her and she was drowning, falling, flying, blind and deaf to everything but Cullen, only Cullen, always _Cullen, Cullen, Cullen_ —

 

She wrapped her ams around his neck, fists clenched in his hair, face pressed to his, riding out the waves as he thrust into her harder, faster, fingers biting into her hips, breath hot against her cheek.

 

“ _Killeen!_ ” he shouted hoarsely and came, shuddering, his final spasmodic thrusts sending her sharply over the edge again, taking the long, sweet fall with him until they both were still, locked in each other’s arms, slick with each other’s sweat, gasping for breath in unison.

 

He moved a hand to her hair, gripped it, forced her to look at him. “You’re still stood down.”

 

Killeen glared at him. “You’re still wrong.”

 

He kissed her, tongue delving deep into her mouth, insistent and demanding, wringing a moan from her, a pulse of response between her legs. She felt his breath of laughter and angrily retaliated, sucking his tongue deeper, stroking it with her own, as he would never allow her to take his cock, gaining a groan from him in return, his hands tightening on her, and _oh Maker_ , she was still shivering with aftershocks but the tension within her was unrelieved, a hot knot in her gut —

 

She pulled away from him a little. “I’ll fight when and where I want.”

 

Cullen cupped her breast with one hand, fingers firm on her nipple, kneaded her rump with the other. “Not under my command.”

 

She dragged his face back to hers again, kissed him hard. “This doesn’t solve anything!”

 

“No,” Cullen agreed, “but if we’re going to argue, this is a lot nicer than trading punches. Only …” he paused, then went on plaintively, “could we move to the bed? This floor is hard on an old man’s knees.”

 

Killeen laughed, and felt the tension between them break with a relief as keen as any orgasm. She put her arms around him and hugged him hard, feeling his arms around her strong and warm and comforting. “All right. Just — be careful. I’ve chocked it up but I’m not sure how sturdy it is.”

 

She began to pull away and get up but Cullen’s embrace tightened and slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet, carrying her with him. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he bore her to the bed and lowered them both down. “Impressive, for an old man.”

 

“Give me half an hour and we’ll see how _old_ I am,” he said with a smile and kissed her again, gently this time, hands roaming over her body, finding all the places that made her skin tingle and heat. “Good?” he whispered, cupping her breast, thumb stroking her nipple to aching hardness.

 

Killeen arched into his touch. “Oh, yes,” she said, then, “oh, _yes_!” as he lowered his head to her other breast, licking, sucking. She wrapped her arms around his head and held him there, breathless and so dizzy that she felt as if the bed was slowly tilting beneath her as she drifted in a haze of mingled satiation and fresh desire.

 

 _The bed **is** tilting,_ she realised, at the same moment as Cullen raised his head and said, “Kill, I don’t think the —”

 

It was a slow collapse this time, one side of the bed sagging gradually to the floor, and they slid rather than tumbled off the edge of the mattress.

 

Lying on the floor, Killeen began to laugh, and Cullen lifted himself on one elbow and looked down at her, eyebrow raised. “What?”

 

“I think the Bull might have just won two coppers,” she said. “If he could find anyone to take the bet.” 


	54. On The Floor - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

_26th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

They dragged the mattress off the ruins of the Champion’s bedframe and remade the bed on the floor. Curled in it together in a nest of blankets, hands moving slowly over each other’s bodies, they exchanged gentle kisses and wordless murmurs. Killeen kissed the scratches she’d left on Cullen’s shoulders and back, ran her fingers softly over his bloodied lip as he caressed the bruises his grip had made on her hips and thighs. Trails of tingling heat followed the path of his fingers on her skin and she felt the ache in her belly rekindling, a tangle of pressure and tension and _need_ wound together in a knot that drew her nerves tight as bowstrings.

  
“Cullen, please,” she whispered, taking his wrist and trying to move his hand to between her legs. “ _Please_ , I need —”

 

The words, the thought, vanished in a gasp as he bent his head to her breast, tongue circling her nipple. She looked down to see him take his cock in his hand, stroking himself firmly until he hardened enough to settle himself between her legs and slide into her.

 

She was so sensitised, slick and swollen, that she came almost at once as he moved slowly in and out of her, came again a moment later, came a third time as Cullen found his own release with a gasp that might have been her name — a series of galvanic shudders that left her wrung out and limp and all but weeping with relief.

 

Cullen circled her shoulders with his arm and rolled them over so she rested on his chest. “Better?” he whispered, hand rubbing circles on her back.

 

“Yes,” Killeen said wearily.

 

“Can we talk?” he asked, fingers still tracing those slow, soothing circles between her shoulder-blades.

 

“I don’t want to argue any more tonight,” Killeen said. She didn’t think she could summon up the strength to move, let alone to fight with him any further. She wanted to lie here, warm and safe, until she slept. “Please.”

 

“No arguing,” Cullen agreed, running his fingers through her hair, finding a tangle and working it gently free.

 

“All right,” Killeen said reluctantly.

 

A long pause, a soft kiss to her forehead. “You never used to take risks like this.”

 

_No arguing_ , Killeen reminded herself. _Talking_. “I did,” she said. “I recall you pulling me out of the way of a blast of magefire that would have crisped me to kindling, once.”

 

“I remember,” Cullen said. “I thought you were going to break my jaw for it.”

 

“I didn’t know whether to hit you or kiss you senseless. I thought you’d gotten yourself killed until I looked up after the fight was done and saw you standing there,” Killeen said, and paused. “I get the point.”

 

“All right,” Cullen said. He worked free another tangle. “If you’d kissed me, I might have dropped dead from shock.”

 

Killeen turned her head to look at him. “Really?” she asked. “Did you really never know how much I wanted you?”

 

Cullen wrapped his arms around her and pulled up a little further up towards him, kissing her cheek. “I didn’t have a clue how you felt until I woke up with my hand between your legs and you quite obviously enthusiastically enjoying it.”

 

Killeen felt a flicker of remembered shame, pushed it aside firmly. _He was awake._ “You know,” she said casually, “if that’s really the case, we should play Wicked Grace together from time to time.”

 

She felt his lips against her cheek curve into a smile. “I might be an idiot, but not to that degree.”

 

“Did you …” Killeen hesitated, not sure if she wanted to know the answer. “Sometimes I thought that I … that you might have been _interested_ , a little, back then.”

 

“I wanted … Kill, I didn’t know _what_ I wanted. You, with me. To see you smile, to hear your terrible jokes.” She opened her mouth to protest _They’re very good jokes_ and he kissed her to silence. “For you to touch my face, the way you did that night, to hold you, to be held. Beyond that …” He shook his head.

 

“Because of Kinloch.”

 

“All I knew of …” He paused, and even through the ache the thought of his pain caused her, Killeen was amused to see him still hesitate, blush, and choose a more seemly word. “Of _intimacy_ was … not something anyone would wish to repeat. Something any sane man or woman would do anything to avoid. And you, I wanted to be with you, to be _close_ to you, and how could I make sense of that in the context of what … what I remembered?”

 

She ran her fingers gently over his chest, tracing the outline of the muscles there. “Is that why you were sometimes so … distant?”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “No, that was the lyrium.”

 

She raised herself a little to look at him, head propped on her hand. “What’s it like? Lyrium?” When he was silent, she went on, “You’ve talked about the power, the strength. The song.”

 

“Those things, yes,” he said. “And — it makes things clearer. Like when you watch a battle from a high vantage point, and you can see the ebb and flow, the movement of troops, in a way you can’t when you’re in the middle of it.” He paused. “And you can make decisions more easily, because of what you can see. And what you can’t.”

 

“No blood, no dust, no noise,” Killeen said.

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Everything becomes a little like that. Clear, and distant.”

 

“Do you still miss it?” she asked softly.

 

“No.” He looked past her, gaze on the ceiling — or the past. “It made certain things easier, yes. And there are times … I know I could do more, _be_ more, than I am. But also — be _less_. Lyrium gives Templars their powers, makes them more than merely human — until it makes them less than human. It was already changing me. I’m not sure I would have cared about you. And the thought of that sickens me.”

 

“It sounds …” she hesitated. “A little how I feel, when I go into combat. Clear. Cool. But I don’t think I’d want to be like that all the time.”

 

Something in her tone made Cullen look at her. “No.” He lifted a hand and traced her cheekbone with one finger. “You were always good at that,” he said. “Focusing.”

 

“It’s more, now.” She turned her head, kissed the tips of his fingers. “Or I’ve needed to do it more, for longer. When I was in the Kirkwall Guard — yes, sometimes it was blades out, shields up, and Maker’s balls, we trained to be ready for it when it came. But I can count on one hand the number of times a fight went longer than five minutes once the Guard was in it. And now …”

 

“And now?”

 

Killeen sighed. “Now I’m a soldier. I’m … not the same, any more.”

 

“You’re the same,” Cullen said. “The job’s different.”

 

“What we do changes us,” she said. “You ought to know that better than anyone.”

 

“I know I am not what I once did,” he countered. “Nor what I _allowed_ to be done.”

 

“Would you be who you are now if it had never happened?” Killeen asked, pressed when he hesitated. “Cullen?”

 

“No,” he admitted very softly. “No. I would doubtless still be a Templar … still unquestioning. But you — I could never have managed this last year without you. The _Inquisition_ could never have managed this last year without you. And … everything that you have done, was in you, back in Kirkwall. I saw it then, and I still see it now.”

 

“Perhaps,” Killeen said. “I saw in you then what I see now, but … it’s clearer now. You _have_ changed. So have I.” She paused, then admitted, “A year ago, I would never have chanced Darktown alone. A year ago, I would have been sensible and waited for Aveline and if Thomas had died … I would have hardly known how to live with myself but I would have found a way.”

 

“If this is the way the Inquisition’s changed you, I don’t think I like it much,” Cullen said.

 

“Cullen, you fell in love with me because I was willing to spend my life to save others,” Killeen said.

 

“I —”

 

“You _said_ it,” Killeen said. “When I ran out to the trebuchets, at Haven, you said.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “That was when I _knew_ that I loved you. Not because you were willing to die on my orders, Kill, but because I thought I was about to lose you and that made everything very clear.”

 

“Oh,” she said softly.

 

“Is that it?” he asked. “You’re trying to _impress_ me?”

 

“No,” Killeen said. “It’s — it’s what I said. It’s too much, Cullen, it’s too long. Being ready, being cold and clear and not distracted by anything.” She paused. “I don’t like it, Cullen. I want to love you, all the time, not just most of the time.”

 

“Have you changed your mind about that desk job, then?”

 

She thumped his shoulder, not gently. “No. And try to resist the urge to use this against me.” She paused, and said more seriously. “Really, Cullen. It doesn’t encourage …”

 

“All right,” he said.

 

“I told you I was no soldier when you asked me to come with you and you said —”

 

“I’ll make you one,” Cullen said.

 

“And you did.”

 

_On the road, it’s not much different to what she knows. There’s a group of new recruits waiting for them when they disembark, although for all Killeen notices or cares with her stomach still trying to turn itself inside out, they could each have two heads and three legs._

_The next morning, solid ground having restored her, she watches Cullen putting them through a drill. He’s curt, impatient: Killeen wonders if this is how it is done, in an army rather than the Guard, or if it is only that it has been a long time since Cullen has had direct command over recruits as inexperienced as these farmers and shopkeepers, weavers and potters._

_There’s not many more of them than a squad, and Killeen has had enough teenagers cycle through her squad through the years to know she could handle them better than Cullen is — but they are not hers, they are_ his _, and so she stands and watches._

_Watches the young and not-so-young men and women who are willing to throw in their lot with the probably-doomed efforts to end the Mage Rebellion, gauging which of them is here for glory, which for adventure … spotting the pale-eyed girl whose fierce intensity betrays that she is here for revenge._

_Cullen finally calls a halt to the drill when the recruits are weak-kneed and panting, some vomiting their breakfast. He strides away and Killeen follows him, finds him inspecting their mounts, tight-lipped and set-faced._

_“We have barely_ weeks _to create a fighting force,” he snaps. “With_ this _as raw material.”_

_Killeen suddenly understands what drives him, why he drives them: for the first time in a decade, Cullen is without the framework of the Templar Order to guide him, and if that were not enough, at stake is his chance to end the catastrophe he believes is, at least partly, his fault._ Make me an army _, Lady Cassandra had said to him, and if he fails …_

_“They’ll get better,” Killeen says easily. She moves a little, so Cullen has to turn or give her his back._

_He turns, which puts his face in clear view of the exhausted recruits._

_Killeen grins at him. “Although I’d watch your nugs around that short red-head. He’s from Redcliffe, you know. Hey, what do you call a man standing in Redcliffe village with a nug under each arm?”_

_“Killeen!” Cullen says, but he’s almost smiling, and when she says_ a pimp _he can’t hold back the chuckle._

_Walking back to the recruits, Killeen sees one or two of them looking at her with an expression that tells her they just saw what she meant them to see: their stone-faced Commander laughing and joking with their new Lieutenant. The story would be widely retailed by this evening, she’d put all the money she had on it._

_“All right, nug-humpers.” She stopped in front of them. “On your feet, fall in, you, Blondie, what’s your name?”_

_“Norris, ser!”_

_“Take one giant step to your left, Norris — your other left, there you go — Carrot, in behind him — that’s right — arm’s length from the soldier next to you, arm’s length from the soldier in front, check, don’t guess! You with the squint, don’t be afraid to touch the man next to you. Maker knows, some of you will be doing a lot more than patting each other’s shoulders after three weeks on the road.”_

_Laughing, blushing, they shuffled themselves into order. Killeen made them fall out, form up again, then again, teasing and scolding, until they could get themselves into roll-call order without her needing to offer corrections._

_“Good!” she said. “You have taken the first step on the long road to becoming possibly worth my time and effort! You have one hour to eat, shit, and pack your gear! If you are not back here in one hour with your packs on your backs you had better start running and pray I break my leg before I catch up with you because I will make you wish you were a nug in Redcliffe ! One hour! Go!”_

_They went._

_Killeen turned back to see Cullen watching her, his gaze cool and assessing. “Perhaps you should take charge of their training,” he said. “At least at first.”_

_And so she does. Takes charge, too, of her own private project: humanising the Inquisition’s new military commander, turning him from a terrifying marionette to a man they’ll follow to the edge of the Void, and beyond if called for._

_Turning him from the man they see to the man she knows._

_She works it from both ends. With the recruits, she drops stories from Kirkwall into conversation over the evening meal — carefully chosen ones, the time he took on a Qunari, two dwarves and a drunk mule, the time he finished a fight with an apostate mage with a well-timed knee to the balls …_

_With Cullen, later, talking over the days events in his tent, she makes sure to impress on him the little things she’s picked up from the recruits: that Hugh the Weaver has joined the Inquisition because his sister is a mage whose life hangs in the balance as long as the war goes on, that pale-eyed Serena had lost a husband and her unborn child when the war between Templars and mages rolled over the hamlet where she lived …_

_“I’m sorry for your loss,” she hears Cullen say to Serena the next day, sees the woman blink in shock and then blink back tears. Hears, too, Cullen ask Hugh his sister’s name, her Circle, promise him to seek out news._

_He cannot help but offer comfort where he can — it is part of him, deep in the bone, from before, Killeen suspects, Templars and vows. She feels a flick of guilt that she has counted on it, manipulated it — but then, has she lied to him, to them?_

_All she has done is open a space for him to show them who he is._

_Not_ all _that he is. The first night she wakes to hear muttered cries from the tent next to hers, she slips out of her cot as quickly as at an alarm bell and into his._ Cullen, wake up, you’re dreaming _, rouses him before he can rouse the camp. After that she takes night watch, every night, listens for his voice —_

_She wants the recruits to know he is human — but not_ too _human._

_It takes her several weeks on the road to realise that she is learning from him, as well: that he is guiding her into a new way of thinking as subtly and surreptitiously as she is guiding him. They talk late into the night about the strategic situation, about Cullen’s plans and hopes, and Killeen finds herself thinking in terms of_ battalions _and_ regiments _rather than squads. Once the recruits have gained fitness and mastered basic commands, Cullen begins to train them again in the evenings — less harshly, Killeen is pleased to see — and she learns to form a shield wall as if there are a hundred men and women on either side of her, not the sharp flying wedge that is the speciality of the Kirkwall Guard. Finds herself following his orders without thinking of civilians or bystanders — finds herself thinking in terms of_ enemy _and_ ally _, a simpler cast of mind than she is used to._

_Finds herself, too, as they gather more and more groups of recruits on the way to Haven, dealing with supply sergeants and transport teams as Cullen does — as if they are duty-bound to do as she asks, not as she is used to, in Kirkwall, as a supplicant who must coax their attention for her tiny squad._

_When they ride into Haven, she is at his stirrup, straight-backed. Their troops behind them are in tight travelling formation, outriders sweeping in as they reach their destination._

_Cullen dismounts, flings his reins to waiting hands, strides up the steps to where Lady Cassandra waits._

_Killeen slips to the ground._

_“All right, boys and girls! Welcome home! Last squadron to set their tents digs latrines for the whole army!”_

_Later, when the sky splits open, she will command those very same men and women to fall in, to follow Cullen, to charge into the Void itself._

_They will obey, all of them, including Norris, including pale-eyed Serena and Hugh the weaver._

_Cullen will speak eloquently at the memorial service. Killeen herself will stand dry-eyed in the ranks as he does so, watching the others to see who will need an extra word of encouragement, a shoulder to cry on._

_She will lead the toasts to the fallen in the Singing Maiden without more than touching her lips to the ale in her cup._

_Will push the grief she feels down and away, because her responsibility now is to stand between Cullen and the men and women he commands and translate one to the other._

_Cullen, in his tent later, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, staring bleakly at the roll of the fallen on his desk: also her responsibility._

_She will blink away unshed tears and drop into the camp-stool across from him, setting her feet on his desk. “So, I heard a rumour … the Herald’s awake.”_

“Kill?” Cullen said softly, finger tracing her cheekbone, and she opened her eyes, came back to the present.

 

“You said you’d make me a solider and you did,” she said. “I’m a soldier because that’s what you needed me to be and this is the only way I know how to be one, and the more and the longer I am … Cullen, you made me this. Congratulate yourself on your success.”

 

He looked stricken. “Kill …”

 

“Yes ser,” Killeen said. “Who? How many?”

 

“That’s not what I —”

 

“You don’t even hear yourself say it. Varric calls me Killer and everybody laughs. I used to be a Guard, Cullen! I used to be _good_ at being a Guard. Talking to people — talking them out of bad ideas and into good ones, helping people, settling arguments … Now what am I? I’m a weapon turned to your hand, I’m the shield against blows you can’t parry and that’s all I can do, Cullen, that’s all that’s left of me!”

 

“It isn’t, Killeen, it isn’t, it isn’t,” he soothed, gathering her to him as she began to weep.

 

“I left them,” she sobbed. “Aveline, everyone. Left them and walked away after all they gave me.”

 

“You gave a great deal back,” he said. “You gave all you needed to. When I left Kirkwall, I knew, for all that I owed the Order — which was everything that made me who I was, good and bad — I knew I could give no more to it, nor it to me.”

 

“You left to _leave_ ,” Killeen said. “I left to go with you.”

 

“I can’t be sorry you did,” Cullen said. “Is that selfish?”

 

“I can’t be sorry I did either,” Killeen said. “But coming back here … I need to find a way to … live with it. With not being sorry. With being changed. With …” She shivered. “Cullen, I saw it again. The dragon. It was like I was there.”

 

Cullen’s hand ran, steady and warm, along the length of her spine, and back, and down again. “It’s been a while since you had those dreams.”

 

“I was awake,” Killeen said. “I was looking up at the stars and then I was looking up at that great black shape blotting out the sky and knowing I was living my very last seconds of life.”

 

His hand didn’t pause in its soothing movement. “It happens.”

 

“I know. I know you —” She was silent. “What if it happens when it matters? What if it happens in a fight? Did you ever —”

 

“No,” he said. “I mean — yes. There were times when I couldn’t have told you if the mages I was fighting were in the Circle Tower or in the streets. When the demons could have been in Kinloch or Kirkwall. But combat is combat — wherever you are.” He paused again. “It will pass. It will grow less, and pass.”

 

“It did for you. After ten years.” She closed her eyes. “And you had lyrium to help.”

 

“I don’t think it helped,” Cullen said. “It seemed to. But when I stopped — when I tried to stop. Everything was … it was as if no time had passed. It wasn’t until I _did_ stop, with Cassandra’s help, and even then not at first …” He paused. “Cassandra’s help, and yours.”

 

“Mine?” Killeen said a little incredulously.

 

He laughed softly. “Do you really not know how much difference you made to me, for all those months? Maker, Killeen … you made me laugh when I couldn’t see anything ahead but darkness and despair. Knowing you’d wake me when I dreamed was the only reason I dared to sleep. Those peaceful moments over tea in the morning were the only peace I knew. And … wanting you was how I learned the difference between what was done to me and what I might choose to do.”

 

“Oh,” she said softly.

 

“I loved you before then, and I would have loved you still had you done none of it,” Cullen said. “But by Andraste, Killeen, you held me together body and soul when I had no way to do so myself.” He touched her face gently, ran his thumb over her lips. “And I will do the same for you. Even if it takes ten years. Until you stop dreaming, and stop seeing, and stop throwing yourself into fights you know you can’t win.”

 

She turned her face against his shoulder. “I don’t know how.”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Cullen said. He put his fingers under her chin, raised her face and kissed her. “Together.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting may be slower for a little. I am trying to work out a problem with plotting created by trying to include several different suggestions from readers, and I have a nasty flu, which is leading to much staring at the page and failing to find creative solutions ...


	55. In The Bath -  Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, warm water and other things.

 

 

 

_26th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

 

Killeen woke as Cullen stirred. She cracked an eyelid to the cool light of dawn seeping around the edges of the shutters and began to raise herself on an elbow.

 

He touched her shoulder gently. “Stay there,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

 

It was tempting. Her head ached with weariness. _No wonder._ She’d snatched only a little restless sleep in Cullen’s absence, and he’d not returned until well after the last watch bell would have sounded if they were in Skyhold — and then it had been hours until they slept. She was sore and bruised from the violence of their argument and the coupling that had followed it, drained and weary from old griefs, new guilts … and the bed was warm and soft, and smelled comfortingly of Cullen.

 

_But I have a thousand things to do ..._ Checking on Thomas, on Fel, seeing to Firefly – and then to the Keep, to assure herself that Cullen had been right, that Jean was unharmed … and then _dealing_ with her sister, the arrangements to take her and Thomas back to Denerim, and Maker’s balls she’d probably have to do it by herself, too, given Mia and Stanton would have to travel back to South Reach and Cullen would no doubt accompany them … Maker, how was she to summon the strength to get through days at sea, with Jean, with Thomas?

 

Her stomach churned with the knowledge of everything ahead and she had to clamp her jaw and breathe hard to subdue the nausea.

 

Cullen’s hand gentle on her hair, then rubbing her shoulders. “There’s time,” he said, as if he could read her racing thoughts. “Rest a little longer.”

 

Killeen gave in to the comfort of his touch, curling back into the warm nest of blankets, pressing her face into the pillow to inhale his warm, familiar scent.

 

_I just will, that’s all_ , she told herself. _I always do. There’s always a way._

 

In a moment. She would rise and dress and arm herself in silverite and cool professionalism … _in just one more moment_.

 

She slept again, only realising that she had when she woke once more to the sound of the door – two racing heartbeats and she recognised Cullen’s stride, smelt bread and rolled over to see him carrying a mug of tea and a handful of rolls.

"You'll teach me to be lazy," she said, accepting them. The smell of the tea was, as always, one of the miracles of each new morning, on a par, as far as Killeen was concerned, with sunrises and birdsong. She sipped, enjoying the contrast between the bitterness of the brew and the honey he’d added to her cup.

 

Cullen smiled. “I don’t think you’re constitutionally capable of it.”

 

The tea and rolls helped her churning stomach. When she’d broken her fast, Cullen held out his hand. “Come on. I’ve something to show you.”

 

Her clothes from the day before were in no shape to be worn — the shirt in particular would need extensive mending, though Killeen had no recollection of which of them had ripped it off her. She muttered a curse as she hunted for her other shirt and remembered she’d washed it the day before, and it was still drying in the laundry.

 

“You need a more extensive wardrobe,” Cullen said.

 

“Certainly a sturdier one,” Killeen agreed.

 

“Here.” He picked up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders. “It’s not far – just down the hall.”

 

“We’re both going to regret this,” Killeen warned, clutching the cloak close for modesty, “if we meet your sister on the way.”

 

They didn’t, and it _was_ just down the hall: a small tiled room with a large, waist high vat in the centre of it, a fireplace crackling merrily, and a pump.

 

“What is this?” Killeen asked.

 

Cullen closed and latched the door behind them, then slipped the cloak from her shoulders and hung it carefully on the rack by the door. “A bath,” he said smugly.

 

He’d filled it already and when Killeen dipped her fingers in, she found it pleasantly warm. “This is much nicer than Skyhold,” she said approvingly. “Maybe Dorian _is_ right.”

 

Cullen took her arm, steadying her as she stepped into the tub and sank down into the blissfully warm water. He undressed – rather too quickly and efficiently for Killeen’s liking – but instead of joining her, as she expected, he walked around and knelt behind her, hands on her shoulders. “Lean back,” he said gently.

 

She did, resting her head on his chest.

 

Cullen scooped water in his hand and poured it over her hair, then worked soap into the strands, the steady movements of his fingers on her scalp sending waves of warm contentment running through her, loosening every joint and sinew. She held her breath and ducked beneath the surface when he instructed her to, resurfacing to see him now at the side of the tub.

 

“Give me your arm.”

 

Slowly, he soaped her hand, her wrist, elbow, up to her shoulder, fingers sliding easily over her skin in the slick scented soap, then picked up a cloth and repeated the same process, washing away the soap, dirt and sweat and tension floating away with it. Her other arm … the cloth was rough in comparison to the silky touch of his soapy hands, the contrast feeling as if it drew the blood to the surface of her skin, the gentle movements of his hands stirring the water around her until it lapped against her, touching her as he touched her … Killeen felt her whole body warming slowly, a diffuse golden heat that had no focus, no urgency, as he washed her legs, her back, her belly, her breasts. She wanted to speak, to tell him how very pleasant his touch felt, to thank him for thinking of the bath, for finding and filling it as she lay lazily abed, but the thoughts got lost between mind and mouth, as the decision to move, to return his caresses, ebbed away between head and hand. Instead, she lay motionless, sighing softly, floating in the warm water and the feel of Cullen’s strong hands so tender and gentle on her skin.

 

And when finally his fingers slipped between her legs, his touch light on flesh still over-sensitive from the force and urgency of their coupling the night before, her release took her almost by surprise, a long, low wave that did not break but merely ebbed away to nothing, leaving her limp and boneless and so sleepy she could have closed her eyes and slept right there in the tub.

 

As Cullen stepped into the other end of the bath, she made an effort to rouse herself, preparing to return his attentions, but he stopped her before she’d more than raised her head. “Rest a little, Killeen. It’s all right.”

 

He washed himself briskly, efficiently, then helped her – all but lifted her – from the water and dried her gently and throughly, then himself. He pulled on his breeches, wrapped her in her cloak, and lifted her, carrying her back to the bedroom and laying her down on the bed.

 

“Rest,” he said again.

 

Killeen realised her eyes were closed. “Thomas,” she mumbled. “And Fel – and –”

 

“I’ll see to them,” Cullen said, and she let herself sink further into the soft mattress, knowing he’d be as good as his word – knowing he was always as good as his word. “I’ll see to all, Killeen. Rest a little longer.”

 

She could not resist, could not summon the strength to open her heavy eyes, move her leaden limbs. “Just … a few moments.”

 

When she opened her eyes again, the sun was high, but the sight of its rays poking past the edges of the shutters brought only contentment and a sense of well-being. Killeen stretched luxuriously, enjoying the slight ache of muscles wearied, but not strained, viewing the day ahead with an assessing, rather than an anxious, eye.

 

Clean clothes were hung over her armour on its stand, where she could not help but see them, and she dressed and armed herself, and went in search of Cullen, of her responsibilities, and of food, in that order.

 

She found them all in the once place: the kitchen, where Fel and the fair-haired boy she’d been introduced to yesterday as _my nephew, Stanton_ , sat at the table being schooled in their numbers by Mia – a task Killeen judged Fel to enjoy far more than Stanton – while Cullen watched from the chair by the fire, a swaddled Thomas sleeping against his shoulder.

 

It was so utterly complete a scene of domesticity that Killeen hesitated in the doorway, feeling an intruder, until Fel looked up and saw her.

 

“How many times does four go into thirteen?” the girl asked.

 

“It depends what you have four of, and what you have thirteen of,” Killeen said, and Cullen turned his attention from Thomas, looking up with a smile that warmed her all the way to the soles of her feet.

 

“I told you!” Fel said to Mia. “If it’s how many wagons do I need to move thirteen barrels, that’s different to how many soldiers can get their daily rations from those thirteen barrels.”

 

“More than four,” Killeen said.

 

“Ale barrels?” Fel asked.

 

“Oh, then yes, four sounds about right.”

 

“This is more for the purpose of learning the principles,” Mia said. “Two fours are eight, and three fours are twelve, so —”

 

Seeing Fel about to explode, Killeen cut in, “Fel, if the south curtain wall is nine yards high and twenty one along, and the stones cut for it are an ell wide and a foot high, and the wagon teams can bring eight of those stones in each trip, and each trip takes three-quarters of a glass to make, how long will the gates need to be open?”

 

“Can they work in the dark?” Fel asked.

 

Killeen shook her head. “No. But it’s Solace.”

 

“They’ll finish by the dinner bell on the third day,” Fel said.

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said, smiled pleasantly at Mia, and went to see what was cooking in the pot over the stove. Behind her she could hear Stanton asking quietly _How did you do that?_ And Fel’s reply, _Ser Bear taught me_.

 

“Fel,” Mia said, “would you like to learn to play chess?”

 

Killeen scooped herself a bowl of the day’s pottage and went to perch on the arm of Cullen’s chair. “How is he?” she asked, looking down at Thomas.

 

Cullen freed an arm and circled her waist. “His tooth is through.”

 

As if he knew they were talking about him, the baby stirred and blinked, then opened his mouth in a tiny yawn.

 

“Oh, I see it,” Killeen said in astonishment. “Andraste’s tits, it’s _tiny_!”

 

“Mia says the rest will come through over several years,” Cullen said. “And then, later, they’ll fall out to be replaced by adult teeth.”

 

“I remember,” Killeen said. “Jean screamed the place down the first time one of her teeth came out. She was convinced I’d snuck over to her bed while she was sleeping and yanked it loose.” She tested the temperature of the pottage, and then offered Thomas some on her spoon. “Not that I wouldn’t have, had I an idea how.” Thomas mouthed at the pottage without much interest and Killeen took her spoon back and licked it clean. “And I’m tempted to loosen a few of her teeth today for being such a blighted fool.”

 

“Will you bring her back here?” Cullen asked.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to. Apart from how crowded Kirkwall is these days, at least here she’s unlikely to get up to any mischief.”

 

“We’ll make room,” Cullen said.

 

“She can sleep in the stable if we can’t,” Killeen said.

 

“She’ll want to be with Thomas,” Cullen pointed out. “Do you want him sleeping in the stable?”

 

“I suppose not,” Killeen said reluctantly.

 

“And then what?” Cullen asked.

 

“I’ll take her back to Denerim, to my parents. Try and shake some sense into her on the way.” She paused, ate another spoonful and offered one to Thomas again. “And you’ll be bound for South Reach, I daresay?”

 

“It’s as easy to go there through Denerim as Gwaren,” Cullen said easily.

 

Killeen leaned down to press a kiss to the crown on his head. “Thank you.”

 

"It's selfish, entirely," Cullen said. "I'd like to see the rest of my family. I'd like you to meet them. And I'd like to meet _yours._ ”

 

Killeen snorted. “Say that again when you’ve met Jean.”

 

“I did, briefly, last night,” Cullen said. “She struck me as … firm in her opinions, even if they ran contrary to observable fact.”

 

Killeen gave a whoop of laughter that started everybody in the kitchen. “Well, that removes any doubt as to whether or not it _was_ her.” She finished her bowl, and sighed. “I should go and face it.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Cullen said. “Mia can mind Thomas?” Mia nodded.

 

“You don’t need to —” Killeen started.

 

His arm around her waist tightened a little. “I _want_ to.”

 

Killeen leaned into his embrace, running her fingers through his hair. She would not have to do it alone — would not have to do _any_ of it alone. “Thank you,” she said again, and, softer because of the no-doubt-listening small ears, “I love you.”

 

She was glad of his company on the way to the Keep, solid familiar presence at her shoulder, the ridiculous fur of his cloak at the corner of her eye. _If I were wearing a leather brigandine instead of fine mail, I’d think I’d fallen through one of those time-shifting rifts Dorian told us about …_

 

“How many times have we made this walk?” Cullen asked, and Killeen was startled to hear her thoughts echoed.

 

“From the Champion’s Estate? Only once.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said soberly. “The day you —”

 

_Searing pain in her back, high up by the shoulder blade,_ not fatal _Killeen assesses as she wrenches sideways and down, trying to trap the weapon in her flesh as she turns — but it skids out as if muscle and sinew were as soft as water and she finds herself facing a Carta dwarf, daggers gleaming —_

_Parries, ducks, pressed hard,_ this is not going well _…_

_Aveline’s big sword comes round in a long flat swing that takes the dwarf’s head half-off and Killeen realises the fight is over._

_“That was a little too exciting_ ,” _she says, peering over her shoulder to try and make out how bad the wound it. A small, clean cut in the leather, no more — she can feel a little blood hot and sticky beneath her arming doublet, not much, can hardly feel the wound at all. “Everyone all right? Cullen?”_

_He’s fine, everyone’s fine — all that remains is the clean up. Killeen is glad she is now too senior to be tasked with over-seeing it: the day has turned unseasonably warm for Drakonis, and the thought of heaving and hauling dead bodies in the heat makes her hands sweat, for all she’s done it time and time again._

I’m turning squeamish in my old age _, she thinks as they start back to Hightown and the Keep, for the faint nausea won’t leave her, making her skin prickle with cold sweat and the street dip and rock beneath her feet. She misses a step, stumbles and drops the sword she’s forgotten to sheathe, fumbles to pick it up with numb fingers that seem to belong to someone else._

_“Killeen?” Cullen asks. She raises her head, squinting against the blinding sunlight, head pounding, and his face looks odd, green-tinged, chin too big, forehead smeared to the side._

I think something’s wrong _, she tries to say, but her lips are thick as cobblestones._

_“Guard Captain!” Cullen’s voice is sharp but the hand on her shoulder is gentle. “She’s —”_

_Fingers touch her back, only the slightest sensation of pressure against cold numbness. “Poison blade,” Aveline says grimly. “Help me get her up — the infirmary.”_

_Killeen tries to co-operate but the world is going in and out of a green haze and her arms and legs only jerk spasmodically when she tries to command them. Flashes of the street … Cullen’s voice … his face at a strange angle, looking down at her, a hand on her cheek that she can only feel as a vague pressure, far away …_

_Something sickly sweet is poured into her mouth and she swallows involuntarily, gags. Cullen holds her mouth shut. “Keep it_ down _, Kill.”_

_She does, just. The haze starts to clear. Killeen realises she is lying on the floor in a big, expensively furnished room, cold marble beneath her, half-propped up by Cullen’s arm. Behind him she can see Aveline, frowning, and when Killeen turns her head the Champion of Kirkwall herself is kneeling by her side._

_“Thank you,” Cullen says to Marian Hawke. “She wouldn’t have made it to the Keep.”_

_“Thank Anders,” the Champion says shortly. “That was one of the batch he made me before —”_

_Before the apostate mage blew up the world, Killeen knows she means._

_She is still not sure, when she has recovered enough to gain her feet and Cullen is walking her back to the Keep and her barracks, how she feels to owe her life to the man who destroyed so many others._

“We should look through the cellars at the Estate,” she said to Cullen. “The Champion probably took everything useful, but there might be something left.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile. “We’ve ruined her bedroom. Do you want to add thievery to the list of complaints?”

 

“She’d have to be here to take issue with it,” Killeen pointed out as they reached the Keep. The Keep, and inside, Jean, and whatever Jean would find to say — _because she always finds something to say …_ Killeen paused. “Look, it’s better if I talk to Jean alone first, I think. See if I can get her to see sense before it gets all complicated with introductions.”

 

It was not the truth, and from Cullen’s quizzical expression, he knew it, but he nodded.

 

Inside, they were directed to the set of rooms where the Guards usually talked to people not — often _not yet —_ under arrest.

 

Cullen stepped back, leaning against the wall by the door, and Killeen smiled. _It took me a good ten months to teach him how to lean like a Guard and not stand at attention whenever we had to wait._ Lessons that had vanished as if they had never been when he’d become Commander of the Inquisition — it made her oddly happy to see that back here, in the Kirkwall Keep, the habits she had taught returned.

She slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “I love you,” she said, took a deep breath, and turned to open the door.

 

 


	56. In  The Interview Room - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Jean.

_26th Kingsway_

 

 

* * *

 

Inside the room, a slender, dark-haired woman sat at the table, examining her nails. _That can’t be Jean_ , Killeen thought, and then the woman looked up at the sound of the door and Killeen realised that she had still, somehow, been expecting a twelve year old girl — that this woman, glossy hair tumbling around her shoulders, dress straining to cover the lush weight of her breasts, was not a stranger placed in here by mistake.

 

Was, indeed, Jean.

 

“ _You_ ,” the woman snarled.

 

_Oh, yes,_ Killeen thought with a familiar twitch of anger. _It’s Jean all right_.

 

Killeen closed the door and leaned against it, folding her arms. “Me,” she agreed.

 

“What in the Void happened to your face?” Jean asked, mouth turning down in disgust.

 

“Demon,” Killeen said shortly. “What in the Void happened to your _brains_?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Maker’s balls, Jean! You ran off with a man who, let me guess, abandoned you without a penny, to _Kirkwall_ of all Blighted places —”

 

“Kirkwall’s not so bad,” Jean snapped. “I got myself a good job, until _yesterday_ anyway. I have you to thank for that, that carrot-haired butch bitch said.”

 

“A good job?” Killeen said incredulously, taking a step forward. “You got yourself fucking _kidnapped_ by a sadist to serve as entertainment for his friends!”

 

“You always _were_ so prudish,” Jean said. “If I agree to a little kinky stuff, where’s the harm?”

 

“None, right up until you ended up strangled to death and buried somewhere on the grounds,” Killeen said. “ _Think_ , Jean. Who did they _hire_ for this _good job_? A handful of friendless girls with no family. Girls no-one would miss."

  
"No! They weren't like that!" Jean said. "They took care of Thomas for me and everything! You're just jealous that  _you'd_ never get invited to a fancy party at a rich man's estate!"

 

"Andraste give me strength. They took care of Thomas by selling him," Killeen put her hands on the edge of the table, leaned over it. "Do you think they would have done that if they planned to bring you back?"

  
"You're lying!" Jean said.

 

"I'm not," Killeen said. "Lucky he has  _one_  family member with a brain and a sense of responsibility — I found him in — "

 

"Oh, yes, always the responsible one!" Jean cried. "Why can't you be more like Killeen?  _Killeen_  sends money home.  _Killeen_  never got herself in trouble.  _Killeen_ —

  
"Maker's balls, Jean!" Killeen said. " _You_  were always the favourite."

 

"I was the favourite, all right," Jean said bitterly. "Where's Thomas? Is he all right?"

 

"He's safe, no thanks to you," Killeen said. "Safe and well."

 

"I want to see him."

 

"No," Killeen said instantly, without thinking about it.

 

"I'm his  _mother_ ," Jean snapped. "You can't say  _no_. He's my son! He belongs to  _me_ , not you!"

 

"Children don't  _belong_  to anyone but  _themselves_ ," Killeen said. For a moment she heard an echo of Cullen's voice, saying something — she put the thought away to deal with later.  _Jean’s right_ , she realised, with a little twist of pain in her chest. _I can’t keep them apart._ But she was gripped with a deep reluctance at the idea.

 

"I'm still his mother!" Jean said.

 

"You haven't acted like one."

 

"I gave birth to him! He's  _mine_." Jean glared. "You want him for yourself, don't you? Look at you. How old are you now? Thirty? No man of your own, no children — dried up, scar-face old maid — so you want to take  _my_  son."

 

"Actually, I have a man of my own," Killeen heard herself saying calmly. "And we plan to have a family."

 

"Oh, is he blind?” Jean sneered. “Or some old sot of a soldier who can't do better?"

  
"A soldier, certainly." Cullen's voice came from the doorway. "Excuse me, ladies, I couldn't but overhear."

 

Killeen shot him a look. She'd _asked_ him to stay outside — the last thing she needed or wanted was Cullen as witness to her sister's spite and idiocy. 

 

If he saw her glare, he ignored it, crossing to her and putting one arm around her waist. "As I said, a soldier, yes, but not, I hope, a sot. And not, I flatter myself, all that old." The arm around Killeen was rigid with tension, and she could hear the anger in his voice like thunder rolling over the horizon, but his expression was polite, if cool.  He offered Jean the hand not resting possessively on Killeen's hip. "We weren’t properly introduced last night. Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition Military Forces, at your service, Miss."

 

Jean's expression was, Killeen suspected, much as her own must be the first time she had seen Cullen Rutherford in the dust and heat of Stock Street: mouth slightly ajar, eyes stunned. Belatedly, she shook the proffered hand. Cullen retrieved his fingers just slightly faster than was entirely polite. He looked down at Killeen. "Will you be long, my dear?" he asked.

 

"Uh — no?" Killeen said, a little dazedly.

 

"Good." He kissed her, slightly awkwardly but with such sincerity her knees weakened, and then let her go, and turned to the door. Reaching it, he paused. "You were correct, Miss Hanmount. I could  _not_  do better. I fail to see how any man could."

 

_Maker's fucking foreskin_ , Killeen thought, trying to reconcile the man who had stammered  _It's a nice night for an evening_  with the one who had just cut her sister down to size with the efficiency of Lady Vivienne herself. 

 

"He, uh ..." Jean said. 

 

"My old sot of a soldier, yes," Killeen said a little smugly, and took the opportunity to make her own exit. 

 

Cullen was waiting for her outside.

  
"Killeen, I'm sorry —” he started as soon as she’d closed the door behind her.

 

Killeen started to laugh. "Sorry!" she said. 

 

"I know you wanted to talk to her alone, but I couldn't stand hearing her speak to you that way any longer. And I didn't think throwing her out the window would be helpful."

 

"Entertaining," Killeen said, then conceded, "Probably not helpful, no. Have you been taking lessons from Sister Nightingale or Lady Montilyet or Dorian or someone?" At his puzzled look, she said, "I bet that would have got a round of applause at Halamshiral itself."

  
"Oh, I — no. I was ..." Cullen shrugged a little. "I never have trouble thinking of what to say when I'm angry." He put his hands on her waist and drew her closer. "You're not angry with me for interrupting?"

  
"Cullen, I've been waiting to see that look on my sister's face since I was  _ten_ ," Killeen said, and he relaxed a little and smiled. 

 

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked softly.

 

“Which bit?” Killeen asked. “That she’s an idiot? That she hasn’t acted like much of a mother?”

 

“That we plan to have a family.”

 

Killeen frowned. “Don’t we?”

 

“I thought you were still thinking about it. You said you needed time.”

 

“I’m done thinking,” Killeen said, only then realising it was true. “I’ve had all the time I need. Yes, Cullen, _yes_ , we plan to have a family.”

 

The smile that lit his face and warmed his eyes was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. “There’ll be orphanages in Denerim,” he said. “There are orphanages _here_ , for that matter.”

 

“I haven’t talked to the healers,” she reminded him. “About … remedies. There wasn’t time before I left.”

 

Cullen leaned his forehead against hers, hands sliding around her waist to hold her close. “I had the feeling … that you were doing so only because I …” He paused.

 

“I was,” Killeen admitted, winding her arms around his neck. “Cullen — I don’t know how I feel about … but if Aveline managed it, then —”

 

“Aveline?” Cullen said, astonished, and Killeen grinned.

 

“Little girl, named Felicia or Felicity or something. So, you know …” she shrugged. “It might not be as bad as I thought.”

 

“It’s not important,” Cullen said, surprising her. “I’ve realised, I was wrong. It’s not important, if you don’t want to.”

 

“I might want to,” Killeen said. She ran her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I’m … not entirely sure. Yet. Of that bit. And,” she added pragmatically, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to adopt a child while we’re still traipsing around Thedas with assorted siblings and Qunari mercenaries in tow.”

 

Cullen kissed her. “You are,” he said, and kissed her again, deeply enough to take her breath away, “entirely too sensi—”

 

“Ahem,” Aveline said from behind him as he leaned in once more, and Cullen and Killeen sprang apart like guilty adolescents caught behind the barn. “Sorry to interrupt this important Templar-Guard _liaising …”_

 

It was hard to tell, but Killeen thought Aveline might have been amused. _Or furious, also a possibility — that professional Guard Captain face she wears on duty is about as expressive as an Orlesian mask._ “Sorry, Captain,” she said, feeling herself blush and not even needing to look at Cullen to know he was crimson, and probably rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“I’m amazed you two got _any_ work done back then,” Aveline said.

 

“We weren’t —” Cullen said.

 

Killeen spoke over him. “It wasn’t —”

 

“Well, I’d like to think I would have noticed,” Aveline said, “if you’d been canoodling in the corridors for three years. So I’ll take your word for it. Thompkinson’s talking, by the way.”

 

“Saying?” Killeen asked.

 

Aveline snorted. “All someone else’s idea, forced into it, that sort of thing. He might be telling half the truth. Some of the paraphernalia we found looks closer to the arcane end of the sadism spectrum.”

 

“Blood sacrifice?” Cullen asked.

 

“Your Tevinter friend and the Qunari killed the only mage on the premises, so we’ve no one to ask, but yes, that’s my guess.”

 

“All those women,” Killeen said. “That’s a lot of power, isn’t it? I mean, that prick in Lowtown, Midansyn?”

 

“Midestyn,” Aveline said, nodding. “And his friends. Gave us quite the fight.”

 

“And that was _three_ they killed,” Killeen said. “What were they meaning to do with as much power as they could have raised from, what, half a dozen?”

 

“Closer to fifteen, all up. That’s what’s troubling my sleep,” Aveline said grimly. “Maleficar are bad enough when they’re hiding in the Darktown tunnels like the vermin they are. Organised, with a wealthy patron — or victim, as Thompkinson insists he is — that’s a whole other nightmare.” She shook her head. “My city, my problem. Are you here to take your sister off my hands?”

 

“Do I have to?” Killeen asked reluctantly.

 

“No,” Aveline said. “I can turn her loose to fend for herself.”

 

“Flames, no!” Killeen said, visions of disaster parading past her eyes. “I’ll take her.”

 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Aveline said. She strode past them and flung open the door. “Out,” she snapped, jerking a thumb.

 

After a pause which, Killeen was quite sure, Jean had carefully judged to be just enough to prove she was acting of her own accord and not because of Aveline’s order, her sister strolled out of the door, eyeing Aveline disdainfully.

 

Killeen set her teeth. “You,” she said, seizing her sister by the upper arm, “are coming with us.”

 

“I am not!” Jean said.

 

Killeen began to drag her down the corridor toward the exit. Jean tried to pull away, but her feet skidded on the stone floor and her flailing blows were feeble and ineffectual. “You can walk or I can drag you,” Killeen said. “By the hair. Which at the moment I’d quite enjoy.”

 

Jean twisted, looking back at Cullen, who was following them. “Are you going to let her do this?”

 

“This is for your own good, Miss Jean,” he said, although Killeen thought she could detect a note of unease in his voice. “You’ll be more comfortable if you co-operate.”

 

“Blight take both of you!” Jean snarled, and sat down, making herself a dead weight.

 

With the grip she had, Killeen couldn’t support her sister’s full weight, and she was forced to stop. “By the hair, Jean, I mean it.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare!”

 

Killeen bent down until her face was only inches from Jean’s. “I’ve seen every disgusting piece of evil filth this city has to offer and had most of them try to kill me at one time or another. I’ve stared straight into the Fade through a hole in the sky. I’ve seen a Magister who entered the Golden City and started the Blight rise from the dead body of a Grey Warden. I’ve gone against an Alpha Hurlock in hand-to-hand combat. There’s very little I wouldn’t dare, little sister. _Stand up!”_

 

She was mildly surprised when the tone that had recruits scrambling to obey worked, and Jean got sulkily to her feet. “I don’t know who you think you are,” she said.

 

“Your best hope of getting out of this city alive,” Killeen said, “so don’t piss me off.”

 

Jean made occasional efforts to jerk her arm free of Killeen’s grip on the way back to the Hawke Estate but, Killeen judged, mostly for show. When Grim opened the door to Cullen’s knock, Killeen shoved Jean through and followed her. Cullen closed and bolted the door behind them.

 

The luxurious surrounds distracted Jean for a moment, and she gazed around slack-jawed, then collected herself and smoothed her skirts. “Well,” she said. “You have a very nice house, Commander Cullen. I suppose I might stay here.”

 

“You will be safe here,” Cullen assured her.

 

No doubt hearing the noise of their entry, Mia appeared at the door that led to the kitchen, Thomas in her arms, Fel and Stanton behind her. Jean took in the tall blonde woman, the two fair-haired children, the swaddled child, and gave Killeen a sidelong look. “A man,” she muttered, “but not exactly _your own_ , is he?”

 

Cullen clearly caught enough of her words to look entirely horrified at the misunderstanding. “My sister, Mia,” he said hurriedly. “My nephew, Stanton. My squire, Fel — and your son, Miss Jean.”

 

Mia came toward them. “Here he is,” she said. “You must be so relieved to see him again. He’s quite well, and —”

 

“Give him to me,” Jean said, arms out, and Mia gently deposited Thomas in her arms. Killeen ruthlessly squelched a pang at the sight. _He’s **her** son,_ she reminded herself. _However inadequate as a mother she may have been, he’ll have been missing and wanting her._ She turned away, busying herself with removing her gauntlets. The baby stirred and squawked at the transfer, and Jean patted him impatiently. “Hush, now, Mama’s here.”

 

“You must be exhausted,” Mia said. “We have a room for you, upstairs, if you’d like to rest. Or some food? There’s plenty.”

 

“I’m hungry, yes,” Jean said. “And I’d like to lie down.”

 

“Of course.” Mia ushered her away.

 

“We’ll need to put a guard on the door,” Killeen said to Grim. “Or she’ll be off out with the baby as soon as she realises I’m taking her back to Denerim. Take first watch.”

 

He looked to Cullen.

 

_Of course_ , Killeen thought. _Cullen stood me down. He’ll have told them._

Cullen gave a small nod, confirming her order.

 

_At least he has the grace to look uncomfortable about it,_ Killeen thought, and stalked off in search of a drink.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there’s a new book out with heaps more stuff about Cullen, his family, and his life between Kinloch and the Inquisition. My guesses have been out on a few things. I’m considering whether to go back and change things — minor things like names of siblings, larger things like birth order, his age, and how his parents died. So, for now, Cullen is now a little bit AU to Bioware canon Cullen …


	57. In The Armoury - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen gets some advice, and tries to take it.

_26th Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen found the Bull in what had been the Champion’s armoury, inspecting the myriad tiny tools there — tools which seemed even smaller between his massive fingers.

 

The Qunari gave him a sidelong glance. “I gather you two settled your differences last night,” he said slyly.

 

Cullen felt himself blush, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. Ah — I was ill-mannered on the road home last night. Forgive me — your help, the Charger’s help, was invaluable.”

 

“Hey, it was fun,” the Bull said, and grinned.

 

“Krem gave you my message?”

 

“About Killer being off-duty until further notice? Yeah.”

 

Cullen hesitated. The Iron Bull was an experienced commander, and had been an agent of the Ben-Hassrath. He would value the Qunari’s opinion of Killeen’s behaviour, her state of mind, and if it had been Harding, Rylen, any of the others, he would have asked — but it didn’t feel right to discuss Killeen with him, behind her back, without her knowledge.

 

“You want to ask me if you think your lieutenant is losing her shit,” the Bull said, “but you don’t want to talk about your girlfriend to your drinking buddy.” He paused. “Not that we drink together, since you can’t hold your liquor.”

 

Cullen found himself rubbing the back of his neck again. “Keep an eye on her?” he asked, and the Bull nodded.

 

“She’s wound up tighter than a fifty-year-old dancer’s girdle,” he said. “Back home, she’d go see the Tamassrans who deal with that sort of thing, but you don’t do that here.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. He paused. “What would the Tamassrans do, exactly?”

 

The Bull shrugged. “Depends on what the problem is. And on what she needs to fix it. Getting the pressure off her is probably a good start. Standing her down isn’t going to cover it, though.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “I didn’t do that because I thought it would … fix things for her. I did it because I can’t trust her decisions.”

 

“How’d she take it?” the Bull asked.

 

Cullen touched his still-swollen lip. “Badly.”

 

“You need to sort that shit out,” the Bull observed. “You made a command decision and a soldier _under_ your command slugged you. If Krem or Rocky tried that with me, they’d be out on their ass without time to pack.”

 

“I wasn’t _only_ her commander at the time,” Cullen admitted.

 

“Stop having professional conversations in the bedroom,” the Bull said bluntly. “Stop having sex in your office — or the War Room, and yes, everybody knows about _that_. Make a decision as to whether you’re her commander or her lover _before_ you start the conversation, and make sure she knows which, and make sure you — and _she_ — sticks to it.”

 

“Sound advice,” Cullen said, trying not to think about the War Room. “Bull, Jean’s here. The door will need to be guarded — she’s not to leave the house. Grim’s stationed there now.”

 

“If this sister is anything like our Killer,” the Bull rumbled, “I’d better put _two_ of the Chargers on it.”

 

“She’s not,” Cullen said. “She’s nothing like.” He turned to leave, paused, and turned back. “And don’t call Killeen that anymore.”

 

His next task was to find his sister, and caution her —

 

 _But caution her as to what?_ Jean had a vicious tongue, and there was clearly bad-blood of long-standing between her and Killeen, but Mia was too level-headed, had too much good sense, to pay any heed to what the girl might say. And there was no need to warn Mia that Jean was not to leave: none of the Chargers would take any instruction to ignore his orders from anyone other than the Bull or himself.

 

And perhaps Mia would be a calming influence on Jean, and more so if she did not regard the young woman with the same suspicion and dislike as Killeen. For, though he could not fault Killeen’s opinion of Jean’s behaviour, Jean was very young, and doubtless sheltered. _And stubbornness seems to be a Hanmount family trait — stubbornness and a refusal to admit when one’s wrong_.

 

And while he could not fault Killeen’s opinion, he could also not deny that, from what he had overheard through the door, her approach had been … less than conciliatory.

 

So he left Mia to make her own judgements of Jean, and went instead in search of Killeen.

 

He found her in the dining room, searching through the sideboard and cursing.

 

“Leave Bull and Dorian alone with a wine-closet,” she muttered, “more fool me.”

 

“Killeen?” Cullen said softly.

 

She turned fast, hand falling to the hilt of her sword, then dropping away again when she saw it was him. “Let’s go,” she said.

 

He could see the pulse still flickering fast beneath her jaw, the fine tremor in her hand — knew, all too well, how it felt to be jerked into hair-trigger readiness at the slightest unexpected sound. He had watched for it in Killeen, when she was ill, in the first weeks of her recovery — watched for it, not seen it, and been glad she’d escaped.

 

Had let her go, alone, not thinking that she would end up here in Kirkwall, not thinking she would encounter any danger — not thinking that a muscle or sinew mildly strained could become a serious injury if over-used before it fully mended, and that the same applied to a soldier’s combat nerves.

 

Had failed her — not least as a commander, as well as as a lover, and a friend.

 

He stayed by the door, careful not to crowd her. “Now?”

 

Killeen shrugged. “Why not?”

 

Cullen paused. “There’s packing, and —”

 

“Not to _Denerim_ , Cullen. Let’s go for a drink.” She smiled at him. “The _Green Door_ , for old time’s sake.”

 

“It’s not yet noon,” he pointed out.

 

“Cu- _llen_ ,” she coaxed. “I’ll tell you my new nug jokes.”

 

He couldn’t help returning her smile. “I don’t think there are any nug jokes in Thedas you haven’t told me already.”

 

“How many nugs —”

 

“Seven,” Cullen said, and she pouted theatrically. _Who am I to her now?_ he wondered, decided on _lover and friend._ “Killeen, don’t let what your sister said distress you. She spoke in anger, and foolishly.”

 

Her grey eyes registered surprise. “I don’t — I’m not.” She smiled. “You gave her the truth of it, didn’t you?”

 

“Then what is it?” Cullen asked. Her posture had relaxed, the smile was unforced — he took a step toward her and held out his hand.

 

Killeen took it and let him draw her close. “Nothing.”

 

“Kill— Killeen.” He folded his arms around her. “Give me a little credit. You’re searching for wine in the middle of the afternoon.”

 

She shrugged a little, face hidden.

 

Cullen remembered his own impulse to protest, when Jean had taken Thomas in her arms and impatiently hushed his cries — remembered the glimpse of Killeen’s face, smooth and expressionless, as she turned away from the same sight. He said carefully, “I — I found it hard, to see … to know that Thomas would be … in his mother’s care.”

 

“He belongs with her,” Killeen said, muffled against his chest.

 

Cullen stroked her hair. “Mia told me that children have a way of working their way into your heart.”

 

“It’s foolish of me,” Killeen said. “He _is_ hers. He should be with her. And those days, before you came — I would have gladly handed him over to her, to _anyone_.”

 

“But,” Cullen said.

 

“But,” Killeen agreed. “I don’t trust her to do what’s right for him. And the thought of something happening … Cullen, I can’t bear it!”

 

“Me neither,” Cullen said. “Perhaps … instead of Denerim, Skyhold?”

 

“And what, keep her prisoner until he’s grown?”

 

“There are a number of empty cells …” Cullen said, and Killeen laughed a little. “Perhaps … she surrendered him once before. Perhaps she could be coaxed into doing so again?”

 

“To _me_? She’d die, first.”

 

“To Mia,” Cullen said, realising the solution as he said it. “Killeen, he’d be safe and loved and well-cared for. You’d have news of him — Mia is an inveterate letter writer — you could visit.” He paused. “He’d not be …” _Yours. Ours._

 

“That’s not important, if he’s safe,” Killeen said. “Do you think Mia could persuade her?”

 

Cullen smiled. “I think Mia could persuade a one-legged nug to take part in a dancing contest.”

 

A real laugh then, Killeen’s whole-hearted guffaw, and Cullen pressed his lips to her forehead. “We’ll not let harm come to him. Whatever the answer is, he’ll be well, and happy, and safe.”

 

She hugged him hard, and lifted her face to kiss him. “I don’t think I could do this on my own,” she said.

 

“You could,” Cullen said. “But you don’t have to. Do you still want to get that drink?”

 

She shook her head. “No. I want to go to bed.”

 

“Still tired?” he said gently, remembering the leaden exhaustion that followed when nerves stretched too tight for too long finally calmed.

 

Killeen grinned. “Not at all.”

 

They were slow and gentle and careful with each other, and when they were done, despite her protestations, Killeen slipped into sleep almost immediately, curled in his arms.

 

Cullen ran his hand softly down her back, tracing the line of her spine, finding the scars he knew now so well — found the one high on her shoulder, a small fine line that looked as if it could have done little harm at all. He stroked it, knowing he wouldn’t disturb her — knowing she felt nothing at all there, in the handspan of flesh around it …

 

_Killeen stumbles to one knee, fumbles to pick up her sword — looks up at Cullen and slurs something incomprehensible, and he’d think she was drunk if he didn’t know it was impossible, if her face wasn’t grey beneath the honeyed tint of her skin, grey and beaded with sweat._

_“Guard Captain!” He goes to one knee to keep Killeen from trying to rise again. “She’s —”_

_Aveline finds the wound, a small, seemingly superficial cut from a dagger — says_ Poison _— between them they haul Killeen up, her efforts to walk more a hindrance than a help._

_They’ve got her almost to the Crooked Stair when the first convulsion takes her. She arches rigid, almost jerking free of their supporting arms, eyes rolled up, limbs shuddering — and when it ends and she slumps boneless, for a long, terrifying moment she is not breathing._

_Then she takes a long, rasping breath and Cullen gasps for air, his own lungs burning._

_“She won’t make the infirmary,” Aveline says grimly. “Next left.”_

_It is to the Hawke Estate that Aveline guides them, a terrifying journey for all that it is only a few blocks, for Killeen’s convulsions come again and again, and in between them she is at best half-conscious, gaze wandering unseeingly, limp between them. The Champion opens to Aveline’s urgent knocking, lips thinning as her cold, unforgiving gaze rests on Cullen._

_“Carta,” Aveline says, beginning to carry Killeen inside without waiting for an invitation, Cullen perforce going with her. “Don’t know what kind. She’s —”_

_Another convulsion, and they lower Killeen to the marble floor, Cullen trying to brace her head so she doesn’t batter it against either the hard floor or against his plate armour. Aveline has the sense to unfasten his cloak and use it as cushioning — the Champion is gone, running footsteps echoing loud through the sparsely furnished room — Killeen is limp and still, barely breathing, flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth. Cullen cradles her head as she arches again, heels drumming on the marble floor, eyes no more than a crescent of white._

_“It’s all right, Kill,” he says, in case she can hear him, in case the Maker can hear him, “It’s going to be all right.”_

_The Champion is back with a small, dusty bottle, flicks out the cork and tips it to Killeen’s lips. When it looks as if Killeen will vomit the liquid back up, Cullen clamps his hand over her lips, knows he’s holding her hard enough to hurt, to bruise …_

_The convulsive motion of her throat stops. He removes his hand, touches her cheek. “Kill?”_

_A moment, another — Killeen’s eyes come back into focus, a little colour comes back to her cheeks. Another moment, and she raises one hand, grips his wrist, gaze steady on his face._

_“It’s all right,” Cullen tells her again, only this time it’s actually true. “You’re going to be all right.”_

Anders _, the Champion says they have to thank for that tiny bottle and the life it saved._

_Cullen walks the two Guards back to the Keep once Killeen is able to get to her feet, sees her safely in the infirmary although it seems likely to be no more than a precaution._

_The Chantry is gone, now, but there is a chapel in the Gallows, and Cullen finds his feet taking him there. He kneels before the statue of Andraste, meaning to give thanks — then finds himself reaching for a candle, kindling it from one of the others burning at Andraste’s feet._

_He is lighting the candle for Anders, he realises, for the apostate mage who has destroyed everything he knows about the world and unleashed horrors beyond counting across the Free Marches and beyond._

_For the man who brewed and distilled and bottled the remedy that saved Killeen Hanmount’s life._

_Cullen bows his head and prays with all that is in him that Anders find his way safely to the Maker’s side._

“Cullen, you’re dreaming,” Killeen said sleepily, and he realised he was murmuring the familiar cadences of the Chant.

 

“Not dreaming,” he said. “Remembering.”

 

She raised herself a little from his chest. “Remembering what?”

 

“One of the many times I could have lost you,” he said softly.

 

Killeen sighed. “Cullen … I can’t keep doing this. Having this same conversation.”

 

“We haven’t had it, yet,” he said. “Have we?”

 

“We’ve had it a dozen times. You say you don’t like it when I’m in danger, and I point out that I can’t do my job _without_ being in danger, at least sometimes, and you pretend to accept it until the next time you forget and then we start again at the beginning.”

 

“That’s not the conversation I meant.” He raised her a little, slipped from beneath her so they were lying side by side, and laid his hand on the scars that stippled her flank. “I don’t … I don’t need time to forget how it felt to watch you ride away from me that day, to know I had likely sent you to your death. I’ll never be able to forget it, Killeen. I — ”

 

“I went willingly,” Killeen said.

 

“But you’re still angry,” Cullen said. “Last night …”

 

“Last night we both said things we shouldn’t have. And —” she raised her hand, traced his lip with her thumb. “Did things we shouldn’t have. I’m only angry that you think the decisions are always yours.”

 

“They are,” Cullen said. “I’m in command, Killeen. It _will_ be my decision. And … I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. Not again.”

 

“Then you should resign your command,” Killeen said, and when he looked at her in shock, “ _I’m_ not the one with a problem with our duties, Cullen, and I don’t see why _I_ should be the one punished.”

“I doubt another Commander would be as tolerant with your insubordination,” Cullen said. “Then we’d both be out of a job.”

 

“Nug farming in Crestwood it is, then,” Killeen said, and he laughed. “Seriously, Cullen. You’re giving orders as the man who loves me and then you’re displeased that I don’t take them as a soldier under your command.”

 

“That’s fair,” Cullen admitted. “Bull suggested it would be easier to keep thing separate if we, uh, stopped being intimate in my office. Or the War Room.”

 

He was amused to see Killeen blush almost as crimson as he was sure he’d been when the Bull had mentioned it. “He knows about the War Room?”

 

“Apparently _everyone_ knows.”

 

“Andraste’s tits,” Killeen muttered, burying her face in the pillow.

 

“ _Your_ tits, more to the point,” Cullen said, cupping one, circling her nipple with his thumb in the way that always made her sigh and arch into his touch. “And my inability to keep my hands off them. You know, I think I enjoy you being a little out of condition.”

 

“Oh, _now_ we get to the truth of it,” Killeen said dryly. “You’re keeping me out of the line so my — _oh_ , Cullen, that’s —”

 

“Good?” he asked.

 

“An unfair — unfair distraction,” she said. “No, don’t _stop_!”

“I wouldn’t want to be unfair.”

 

“I’ll show you _unfair_ ,” she muttered, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top of him, and the question of her insubordination was tabled for a while.

 

“I’m going to miss your desk,” Killeen said later, head pillowed on his arm. “I have very fond memories of that desk.”

 

“We could move it upstairs,” Cullen said. “I could get a new desk for the office.”

 

Killeen laughed. “You’d never get it up the ladder.”

 

“Hoists,” Cullen said. “Up the outside, in through the roof. It’d give the engineers something to do besides calibrate the trebuchets.”

 

She laughed again, then sobered. “You know … if we go ahead with this family idea, we’ll have to find somewhere else to live. I don’t think that ladder and small children are a good combination.”

 

Cullen paused. _The rustle of the leaves, the creak of the branches … the illusion that he is outdoors, no roof pressing down on him …_ but Killeen was right. _And surely, now, after everything, it will not be so bad …_ “No, it wouldn’t be,” he agreed. “We talked about the lower courtyard, didn’t we?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said. She turned to look at him. “Do you mind?”

 

 _No, of course not_. He paused. “A little,” he admitted. “I’ll miss the stars, the moon. And … the memories. Even the bad ones.”

 

“And … are we going to adopt a boy or a girl?”

 

“We could adopt both,” Cullen said.

 

Killeen snorted. “Ambitious. Let’s get through a few months without dropping it on its head or drowning it in the bath, first.”

 

“Probably a good idea,” Cullen agreed.

 

“So, boy or girl? You’ll want a son, won’t you?”

 

“Or a daughter,” Cullen said.

 

“Yes, but that’s —” she started, bit the words off and lay looking at the ceiling.

 

He raised himself on his elbow. “Killeen?” When she was silent, he put his hand gently over hers. “What is it?”

 

"I was supposed to be Kieran,” Killeen said at last. “My father wanted a son."

 

Cullen held still. He mustn't say the wrong thing — couldn't say nothing — "I'm very grateful to the Maker that you aren't," he said at last. "If I'd had to compete with Dorian I don't know if I'd have been the victor."

 

Killeen snorted a little, and — _yes_  — turned her head to meet his gaze, grey eyes amused. "You would have had your work cut out for you. He’s very charming."

 

“I know,” Cullen said. “It would have been a challenge.”

 

Killeen rolled over again and buried her face against his shoulder, and he held her tightly. "When Jean was born," she said, a little muffled, "I was old enough to know I was a disappointment. At first I was pleased — I thought there'd be two of us, two disappointments — but it wasn't like that. My mother had trouble with me. There weren't supposed to be any more children. They treated Jean like a special present."

 

"And you like the almost son they didn't have?" Cullen said softly, and she nodded. "If they hadn't, Kill, would you have ended up taking service in the Guard?"

 

"Probably not," Killeen said. "I wasn't as strong as a boy would have been, so I made myself stronger. I wasn't as brave as a boy should have been, so I learned to be braver. And most of what I know about figuring and supply chains and all of it, my father taught me — even after he didn’t have a business to leave me. So, yes. I'm glad. I'm not sorry my life is how it is, Cullen, Maker, I'm so much the opposite of sorry I don't think there's a word. But ..."

 

"It still hurts?"

  
"No," she said. "Not like that. Oh, I'm pissed off at them. I've been supporting the three of them since the Blight took my father's livelihood, and all I ever hear from them is how pretty Jean is, how many proposals of marriage she's sure to get ... but no, it doesn't hurt."

 

"Then what?" he asked gently. 

  
"They never meant to do it," Killeen said. "People don't. They don't look at a baby and say, I'm going to make you unhappy and angry and trapped ... but they do it anyway."

 

"We won’t," Cullen said.

 

“How can you be so sure? Cullen, what if the child we adopt is a mage? What if it wants to be a Templar? What if she's like Krem, or he's like Serendipty? What if he's like Dorian?" 

  
"Are those things problems for you?"

  
"With Krem and Dorian and Serendipity, no," Killeen said. "But you heard Jean.  _My_  son. He  _belongs_  to me. What if I feel the same way?"

  
"I heard her," Cullen said. "I heard you, too. Children don't  _belong_ to anyone but  _themselves_ ,"

 

"And if it's a mage?" she asked. “What if — Cullen, what happened to the boy?”

 

“Which boy?” he asked.

 

“Benon's son. The mage child.”

 

He paused, trying to find the words.

 

“Tranquil,” Killeen said softly. Cullen nodded.

 

“It was necessary,” he said. “It wasn’t — he’d been summoning, Killeen, he wasn’t strong enough to stand against the temptations the demons offered. It was necessary.”

 

“Would you send our son or daughter to a Circle?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “You know as well as anyone what can happen. And under Divine Victoria — the Circles are not exactly what they once were, Killeen.’

 

“And if they wanted to be a Templar?” she asked. When he was silent for a long time, she raised herself on her elbow. “Cullen? What if Stanton wanted to be a Templar? Would you allow it?”

 

“Yes,” he said softly.

 

“To be a Templar,” Killeen said flatly. “And take lyrium.”

 

“Lyrium gives Templars their powers. Without it — they're as vulnerable to mages as anyone.”

 

“Cullen!”

 

“I joined the Templar order to protect — mages, and non-mages both. If Stanton, if any young man, wanted to do the same, how could I tell them not to?” Cullen turned his head to look at her. “I would tell them the truth, though. That too many start for good reasons, and end serving out of fear, and because they are compelled. That for many, once the sacrifice is made, there is no end — that they are leashed until the day they die, or lyrium takes their mind away. I would tell them that, and allow them to choose as they would.”

 

“And if a mage child didn’t want to choose the circle?”

 

“Kill — Killeen.” He took her hand. “Neither you nor I could guard such a child against the dangers — or teach them, either. It would be cruel to try, knowing we’d fail, knowing the fate that would come for that child with our failure.”

 

“There has to be another way,” Killeen said, resting her head against his shoulder.

 

“If one should be found, I’d take it, in preference,” Cullen said. “And I promise, should our child be a mage, I’ll search every quarter of Thedas for it.”

 

“All right,” Killeen said, and kissed him. “Then — when we return to Skyhold, we’ll make a home. And … find a child who needs one.”


	58. In The Study - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen makes a list.

_26th Kingsway_

 

 

* * *

 

Killeen slept again, which made Cullen frown a little. The strength of her constitution, her physical resilience, had been a constant as long as he had known her — _except when she was in the infirmary, last summer_ , he thought.

 

But he would have found any new wound, even one she was trying to hide from him, in his remapping of her body in the past few days, and the Divine Victoria had said all her injuries from that last fight at Haven were well and truly healed.

 

_Perhaps she is simply more out of condition than I thought_.

 

_Or perhaps one of the marsh fevers … Kirkwall is not the healthiest of places._ He brushed her forehead with his fingers, found it reassuringly cool. _Still, if this fatigue persists, I’ll send for a healer. Aveline will know one who can be relied upon._

 

Leaving her to sleep, he went to check on the rest of his responsibilities. The door was still watched — by Rocky, now — the Bull was putting the rest of the Chargers, and Stanton and Alistair as well, through their paces in the long room at the rear of the house, while Dorian kept up a running commentary. Mia he found playing chess with Fel, both frowning over the board with a concentration that foretold a long and intricate match. He interrupted them long enough to learn that Jean was still resting upstairs, and then found the Champion’s study and settled at her desk to begin making a list of what needed to be done before they could depart.

 

_Depart as soon as possible,_ he thought. _Although … it may take some time for Mia to persuade Jean to yield Thomas._

 

It might also take some time to persuade Mia to _take_ Thomas, too.

 

Frowning over the problem, he was started by a gentle rap on the door, and looked up to see …

 

_The problem herself._ Jean had clearly repaired her toilette, hair pinned up instead of tumbling over her shoulders, wearing a dress he recognised as one of Mia’s — which was a little too long and somewhat too tight for Jean.

 

“Miss Jean,” Cullen said, rising politely. “I trust you are refreshed? The room is to your liking?”

 

“It’s very nice,” she said, her tone markedly different from the one in which she’d addressed Killeen. “Thank you.”

 

“We’re pleased to offer you refuge,” he assured her. “If you’re hungry, I’m sure my sister can —”

 

“No, I —” She hesitated, twisting her fingers together nervously. “I hoped to — but you’re busy.”

 

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Cullen said. “How can I assist? Please — ” He turned a chair, drew it a little closer to the fire. “Sit down.”

 

Jean came slowly into the room, closing the door behind her, and took the offered seat. “Thank you. Commander — you’ve been so kind.” Her lip trembled. “Especially after all I’m sure Killeen’s said about me.”

 

“Very little,” Cullen said. _Not altogether true …_ but what Killeen _had_ said, the childhood resentment from the older sister to the younger which no doubt the younger sister had sensed … a tangled history that could easily bind and blind them both.

 

“She and I — there were too many years between us, when I was a child, we were never … close.” Jean looked down at her hands. “And she never had much patience for a sister who couldn’t do all the things she could do, you know?”

 

“I understand,” Cullen said, although in truth he remembered mostly patience from Mia, patience and the occasional ruthless exploitation of her superiority in years. “I have older siblings, myself.”

 

She gave him a shy smile. “I knew you would understand. I could tell you were nice.”

 

“Killeen may have spoken harshly this morning,” Cullen said, “but she’s come the length of Ferelden and further because she feared you were in danger.”

 

“I know,” Jean said. “I should be more grateful to her, I know that. It’s just so …” She made a small, helpless gesture with her hands, shrugged a little. “Difficult, between us.”

 

“Perhaps this is a chance to repair matters,” Cullen suggested. “Now you are both adults.”

 

Jean smiled again. “I hope so. Perhaps you could … talk to her. Tell her I am not as bad as she remembers.” She sighed. “I was only twelve when she left, and I’m sure I was as unkind to her as she was to me. It’s very unpleasant, to be so hated by your own sister.”

 

Cullen realised with alarm that her eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you,” he said hastily. “Please, Miss Jean — ah — there’s no need —”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, the tears beginning to fall. “Please, excuse me —” She stood, and Cullen rose as well, searching his pockets for a handkerchief.

 

“There’s no, ah. Need. To apologise.” He found one, offered it. “Here, it, ah — quite clean.”

 

He stepped toward her to give it as she stepped forward to take it and then somehow she was leaning against his chest. “You’ll protect me from her, won’t you?” she asked, looking up at him pleadingly.

 

“I’m—” _sure you won’t need protecting,_ he was going to say, then remembered Killeen’s white-knuckled grip on her sister’s slender arm as she dragged her down the Keep’s corridor. “You’ve no need to fear,” he said instead, gingerly patting her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way.

 

He was far from comfortable himself: in leaning against him for support, Jean was pressed far too closely against him, body shaking slightly with her soft sobs. Cullen patted her shoulder again. “There’s no need to distress yourself, Miss Jean. Please.”

 

Jean turned a little to look up at him again, her hips unintentionally pushing against his. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be frightened, not with you to protect me.” She rested her hand on his chest. “You’re so kind, and strong. I know you’ll keep me safe.”

 

“Indeed,” Cullen said. He took hold of her shoulders and set her firmly at a distance from him. “Miss Jean —”

 

“Must we be so formal?” she asked.

 

“It, ah — appropriate,” Cullen said. “How, um, is Thomas?”

 

“He’s very well.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”

 

“You should thank Killeen,” Cullen told her. “She cared for him before we arrived.”

 

The handkerchief dropped. Jean stared at him with amazement. “ _Killeen_?” she said. “She wouldn’t even play with _dolls_.”

 

The thought of Killeen, even as a child, with a doll made Cullen smile. “Nevertheless,” he said.

 

“Well, then, I thank her for it,” Jean said, not entirely graciously. “You have obviously had a good influence on her.”

 

“It has been many years since you last met,” Cullen reminded her. “People can change a great deal.”

 

“Yes, that’s true.” She dabbed her eyes again, then offered him the handkerchief back. Their fingers met accidentally as he took it and Cullen withdrew his hand quickly, the contact making him inexplicably uneasy.

 

“You must excuse me,” he said politely. “I have a great deal of work to do.”

 

“Of course,” Jean said quickly. “Commander of the Inquisition, you must be very important — and very busy.”

 

“Far busier than I would be, were it not for your sister’s aid,” Cullen said.

 

“Oh,” Jean said, “yes, I recall she was always very good at … business and so on. So that’s why …” Her voice trailed off, and she smiled. “I will leave you to your work, Commander. Thank you. I feel better for having talked to you.”

 

“Of course,” Cullen said, inclining his head politely.

 

Jean left the room, leaving the door ajar behind her, and Cullen found himself able to breathe easier. _Weeping women, Maker’s breath!_ Although given how many tears Killeen had shed in the past few months, more than in all the years he’d known her up until then, he should perhaps be used to them …

 

But Killeen was entirely different. She might puzzle or confuse him, but he never felt uncertain or uneasy.

 

He frowned at his half-made list. _She **has** been far more emotional recently. I should have seen she was not recovered … _

He would not be so careless with her again.

 

The list was finally done. Since the first item on it was _Talk to Mia_ , Cullen went to do just that.

 

The chessboard was still set on the kitchen table, but Mia was chopping carrots, the Bull was lounging in the chair by the fire, and Fel was nowhere to be seen.

 

Cullen took a moment to study the set of the pieces.

 

“Are you playing black or white?” Cullen asked his sister.

 

“Black,” Mia said.

 

“I think you’re in trouble,” he said with a smile.

 

“She’s definitely in trouble,” the Bull said.

 

“I have a trick or two up my sleeve,” Mia said. “As you may remember, brother.”

 

“Indeed I do,” Cullen said. He found another knife on the rack above the fireplace and sat down opposite her. “Pass me half.”

 

“The great Commander of the Inquisition working as a kitchenhand?” Mia said, setting a handful of the carrots in front of him.

 

“I believe I still remember how.” Their mother had been quick to recruit any idle hands to help with her chores.

 

“I’d worry if you couldn’t work it out, remember or no,” Mia said.

 

They worked in companionable silence for a moment, and then Cullen said, “Do you recall —”

 

“Remember when —” Mia said at the same moment, and they both laughed. “You first.”

 

“I was thinking of that dish that Mother used to make, with carrots. Somehow she made them sweet.”

 

“Honey,” Mia said. “Just a spoonful, warmed and mixed with melted butter, stirred through before they go in the oven.”

 

_Of course, she taught Mia how_. _In all those years they had together, after I left._ “How —” he started, paused. “You wrote when they passed. Was it … you said it was quick, for them both. Was that the truth?”

 

“Aye, it was,” Mia said. “Father — it was one blow, Cullen. And mother … one morning not long after I went to wake her and she was gone. They never could bear to be long apart, you know.”

 

“No,” Cullen said, “I didn’t see that, then. I was too young, I suppose.”

 

Mia gave him a sidelong glance, a grin. “I meant, you’d know how it is, with you and Killeen. I wonder if _they_ broke beds after Father’s business trips, when they were younger.”

 

“Mia!” Cullen could feel himself blushing.

 

“She’s an old married woman, Curly,” the Bull said. “She’s probably broken a bed or two —”

 

“Bull!” Cullen interrupted. “Sweet _maker_!”

 

Mia was blushing, but grinning. “Where do you think Stanton came from, then?” she said, eyes dancing.

 

“I choose to believe you discovered him under a bush one morning,” Cullen said with as much dignity as he could muster.

 

“Your Killeen will be finding a child under her bush one day soon if you keep on as you’ve been going,” the Bull rumbled, and Mia laughed aloud as Cullen came near to slicing off a fingernail.

 

“Will you marry her,” she asked, “or is my niece or nephew to be a bastard?”

 

“It’s of children I wanted to talk with you,” Cullen said, seizing the conversational opening — and the change of subject — with relief. “Or, a particular child. How are you getting along with Miss Jean?”

 

“She’s a sly one,” Mia said. She glanced at the Bull and he nodded agreement.

 

“One minute, butter wouldn’t melt between her legs,” he rumbled, “and the next, she’s slipping in the knife.”

 

“Killeen is worried — _I_ am worried — about Thomas.”

 

“Yes,” Mia said. “She treats the boy like a child treats a toy. Cherished and special, until she gets bored.”

 

“You people,” the Bull said, “acting as if working innards makes someone fit to raise and shape and guide a child.”

 

“You people,” Mia said tartly, “acting as if there’s no bond between a woman and the babe she carries beneath her heart for nine months.”

 

“And there’s a bond between Jean and that child, is there?” the Bull said.

 

“Of a sort,” Mia said. “I admit, not, perhaps, the best sort.”

 

“I thought …” Cullen paused. “She was willing to give him to another’s care, before. She might be willing to do so again.”

 

“You’d raise him, then?” Mia said.

 

“Killeen thinks that her sister would be against such a proposition,” Cullen said. “Out of their childhood enmity. No, I thought … I _hoped_ … if you and she were to become friends, she might be willing …”

 

Mia put down her knife. “Cullen, I’ve a babe barely out of clouts at home.”

 

“I — yes. I see.” He frowned down at his pile of sliced carrots. _There must be another solution …_ For his life, he couldn’t see one, but there _had_ to be one …

 

Mia sighed, and Cullen looked up to see her half-smiling. “Of course, little brother. I’ll do what I can to persuade her.”

 

“Thank you,” Cullen said fervently.

 

“I never could stand you looking at me like someone had eaten the last sweet-roll.” Mia stood and began to sweep the chopped carrots into her apron. “How do you think you won all those chess games? Now. Fetch the honey from the pantry, and I’ll show you what’s next.”


	59. In The Dining Room - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen attempts to keep the peace

 

_26 Kingsway_

* * *

 

The dish was as good as Cullen remembered, accompanied by roast fowl and corn mash. _I will have to tell the secret to the cooks at Skyhold_ , he thought, looking around at their motley company gathered at the dinner table.

 

Killeen beside him, studiously ignoring her sister at the other end of the table, as Jean ignored her in turn; the Chargers, who brought honest appetite if not grand table-manners to the meal; Stanton beside Mia, both eating with far more decorum, and on Mia’s other side, Fel, copying their manners as best she could and sneaking scraps of roast chicken from her plate to Ser Calenhad on her lap; Dorian lounging elegantly in his chair, and past him, Alistair, looking almost as if he were about to fall face first asleep into his meal — but not, Cullen judged, from drunkenness but from honest exhaustion at the drill he’d been put to that day.

Thomas stirred and squawked in his cradle by the wall. Killeen half-rose, then sank back as the baby fell silent again.

 

Cullen found her hand beneath the table, leaned closer to murmur, “I spoke to Mia. She will do what she can.”

 

Killeen squeezed his fingers, shooting him a grateful glance.

 

Cullen raised his voice, speaking to them all. “We leave the day after tomorrow, on the first tide, bound first for Denerim. Fel, I’ll need a list of supplies we have and supplies we need by second bell tomorrow. Assume we’ll not resupply in Denerim, prices likely to be high. Stanton, Bull will give you a list of gear that needs repair before we take to the road. The Chargers will see to it but I’ll have you check each piece off when it’s done to be sure nothing’s missed.”

 

The two children nodded gravely.

 

“And what am _I_ to do?” Jean asked.

 

“If you wish to help, Miss Jean, there’s mending aplenty —”

 

“Void take your mending!” she snapped. “What am I to do when you abandon me here?”

 

“You’ll be coming with us,” Killeen said.

“I am _not_ going back to Denerim!” Jean said.

 

“You’ll go where I say, when I say,” Killeen said evenly.

 

Cullen squeezed her hand beneath the table. “Miss Jean, we can’t remain,” he said. “And it isn’t safe for you to stay alone.”

 

Jean took a breath deep enough to strain the bodice of her dress. “I thank you for your concern, Commander,” she said in a more moderate tone. “But I do not wish to return to Denerim. I have had enough – _more_ than enough – of my parents’ house.”

 

“Making a new life is no easy task,” Mia said.

 

"My sister managed it," Jean said with a toss of her head. "So shall I.”

 

“ _I_ had some idea –“ Killeen started to say.

 

Mia spoke over her smoothly. “But with Thomas so young,” she said. “Of course, I understand how much you must wish to have your own household. I felt the same, at your age. Still, it’s difficult enough to care for a babe when you have a home and family to support you …”

 

Jean set her jaw. “I am _not_ going back to Denerim,” she said.

 

“You’re not staying here,” Killeen said bluntly.

 

“I will if I want! You can’t tell me what to do!”

 

“Your parents will at least want to know you are safe,” Mia said swiftly. “As you would want to know Thomas is safe. After that, well – there’s plenty of time to discuss it.”

 

Jean shot a sulky look at Killeen. “I’ll go where I choose,” she muttered.

 

“Of course,” Mia said. “But will it not be easier to travel with us as far as Denerim, at least? After all, I hear there’s little work and little accommodation here in Kirkwall, and taking your own passage would not be cheap – and likely, uncomfortable. Cullen has arranged a good, stout ship for us, that waits still in the harbour. Far more pleasant than sharing the hold of a cutter with two dozen others, surely?”

 

"All right," Jean said, with the air of doing Mia a great favour. “As far as Denerim, then."

 

Killeen looked as if she were about to explode and Cullen squeezed her hand firmly. She shot him a look, but managed to keep her mouth shut. “Excellent,” he said. “Please let Mia know what you, and Thomas, will need for the journey.”

 

“I will,” Jean said. She smiled. “Thank you for your generosity, Commander.”

 

Killeen snorted. “I’d start with a dress that —”

 

“And, Killeen, will you make sure the horses are fit for another sea voyage?” Cullen interrupted her. “Bull, can you spare Rocky for the task?”

 

The Bull nodded. “It’ll leave me one short,” he rumbled. “With Krem out of action, that’ll stretch us thin, between the house and re-provisioning. Alistair, you’ll fill in.”

 

“Oh, I think I —” Alistair started to say, paused. “Suppose I could find the time,” he finished airily.

 

“Good,” the Bull said. “You can take first watch on the door.”

 

“Or I could go the market,” Alistair said. “Knowing the local suppliers better, getting a good deal, so on.”

 

 _And slipping off to a tavern_ , Cullen thought, as the Bull shook his head. “Door,” the Qunari said.

 

“Oh, very well,” Alistair said, and Cullen thought he sounded almost relieved.

 

“How’s the knee, Krem?” Killeen asked.

 

“Fucked,” Krem said.

 

Killeen glanced at the Chargers’ surgeon. “Stitches?”

 

“The technical term,” the dark man said, “would be fucking fucked. He’ll be off it for a while.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jean said. “I feel terrible — you thought you were _rescuing_ me.”

 

“We _were_ rescuing you, miss,” Krem said.

 

“Yes, well,” Jean said, and smiled, as if to say _You’re wrong, but let’s not argue._

 

Killeen rolled her eyes. “Oh, for —”

 

“Then that’s settled,” Cullen said. “We’ll leave the day after tomorrow.”

 

Killeen finished the rest of her meal in silence, then volunteered herself for clean-up duty.

 

Cullen checked the door, the windows — upstairs as well as down — and, satisfied the house was secure, repaired to the Champion’s bedroom.

 

Fel was waiting for him. “Ser Bear?”

 

He shrugged off his cloak and hung it up. “What is it, Fel?”

 

“I don’t think we should take Miss Jean with us.”

 

Cullen paused, busied himself with the lacing of his pauldrons for a moment. “We can’t leave her here, cubling.”

 

“Why not?” Fel asked. “She wants to stay. And I don’t like her.”

 

“She might want to stay, but it wouldn’t be safe for her. Killeen would worry.” Cullen loosened the laces, stooped. “Help me with this.” The girl tugged the laces free, and Cullen asked casually, “Why don’t you like her?”

 

“Ser Calenhad hissed at her,” Fel said, setting the pauldron carefully on the armour stand. “Other side.”

 

Cullen bent for her to reach his other shoulder. “Perhaps they just don’t get on,” he said.

 

Fel frowned, working at the laces. “Ser Calenhad is very clever.”

 

“I don’t doubt it, cubling.” His back began to ache at the angle — it would have been easier and quicker to do this himself, but Fel would take it as a reprimand if he said so. “But sometimes even clever people — and cats — dislike each other for no reason. You should form your own opinions, whatever Ser Calenhad thinks.”

 

The pauldron came free. Cullen straightened with relief as Fel set it aside. “My opinion is, I don’t like her.”

 

Cullen sighed. “Try to be polite, anyway, cubling. You’re my squire — how you behave reflects on me.”

 

“Yes, Ser Bear,” she said.

 

He pulled off his cuirass before she could help him with it. “Thank you, Fel. You can go to bed.”

 

“Yes, Ser Bear,” she said, and didn’t move.

 

Cullen eyed her. “What is it, cubling?”

 

She hesitated, and then burst out, “Who hit you?”

 

Cullen touched his still-swollen lip. “It, ah. An accident. Killeen was … showing me a new throw.”

 

“Oh,” Fel said, unconvinced. “When you were shouting at each other, or after, with the sex?”

 

Cullen felt himself blush. In fact, it was hard to remember exactly at what point the heated argument had become … just heated. “In between,” he temporised.

 

“Are you going to hit her like you hit Papa?” Fel asked.

 

“No!” Cullen said immediately.

 

Fel frowned up at him. “Why not?”

 

Cullen went down on one knee and took her by the shoulders. “I shouldn’t have treated your father as I did,” he said. “I was angry with him, and I acted in anger, and it was wrong — but he was more wrong. Killeen was wrong too, but it would be worse for me to … to do the same, without anger. Do you understand?”

 

“No,” Fel said.

 

Cullen tried to find his way through thickets of moral ambiguity. “You should never use your strength against someone weaker than you are,” Cullen said, “except to stop them harming someone else. And you should never hurt anyone if you don’t need to do so to stop them harming someone, or more than you need to — but it’s worse to do so deliberately, in cold blood. You should try not to do so at all — but sometimes it’s difficult.”

 

“Like when someone makes you so mad your head gets hot and red?” Fel asked.

 

“Like then. But you should always _try_ , cubling. It’s just that sometimes … like when I saw that you’d been hurt, I … forgot that I should try.”

 

“Did you hurt someone?” Fel asked. “Is that why Kill hit you?”

 

Cullen shook his head. “Killeen … she was angry with me, and she thought she had a reason to be, and she made a mistake. She’s sorry now.” He paused.

 

“Like when Mama told me we had to leave Skyhold and I kicked her in the shins?” Fel asked. “And she slapped me, and we both cried?”

 

“Like that,” Cullen said. “You still love your Mama, and she loves you, even though you both made a mistake.”

 

“And you love Kill, right?” Fel said. “And she loves you?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Very much. And her making a mistake doesn’t make any difference.”

 

“Are you going to marry her?”

 

It was the second time that day he’d been asked that question — and the second time he’d found an answer drying on his lips. _Yes of course_ , he should say. He loved her. They were making real, concrete plans to start a family. _Yes, of course we’ll marry_.

 

He had not asked her at Skyhold, had told himself he was waiting for the right moment, waiting until he found the right way … realised, as he struggled to find the words to answer Fel’s innocent question, that it had been an excuse.

 

“I’d like to,” Cullen said at last. “But she’ll have a say in it, as well. Now, off to bed with you, cubling. You’ve a great deal of work to do tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Fel said, and left. He heard her saying _Goodnight, Kill,_ in the hall outside, and a moment later Killeen herself came in.

 

Still angry with her sister, judging from the set of her jaw and the sharp economy of her movements as she stripped off her armour and hung it on the stand.

  
“Only another day,” he said. “And it’s a short sea voyage, even at this time of year.”

 

Killeen snorted. “Can’t be short enough as far as I’m concerned.” She paused, and then burst out, “Did you _have_ to take her side?”

 

“Take whose side?” Cullen asked, startled.

 

“Jean! It isn’t safe for you to stay alone, Miss Jean,” she mimicked. “Please let Mia know what you’ll need for the journey, Miss Jean.”

 

“Killeen.” He touched her shoulder, then drew her into the circle of his arms. “Aveline might turn a blind eye to us carrying your sister onto the ship bound and gagged, but that would hardly leave her in a mood to listen when Mia tries to persuade her Thomas would be better off in South Reach.”

 

Killeen sighed. “I suppose that’s true,” she admitted reluctantly. “But it drives me up the wall to listen to her. _Thought_ you were rescuing her, Andraste’s arse-cheeks.”

 

“Then don’t listen,” Cullen said. “Keep your distance. Let Mia deal with her.”

 

“Then she gets away with it!” Killeen said.

 

“It’s the advice you’d give someone else,” Cullen pointed out. “The only thing that matters is Thomas.”

 

She sighed again. “I know. I know. Cullen — what are we going to do if Jean doesn’t agree?”

 

“I suppose I’ll have to order Fraser or Norris to marry her,” he said, and Killeen laughed. “Which one do you think would be more persuasive?”

 

“Either,” Killeen said. “She’d be beside herself with delight to be wed before _me_.”

 

And there it was, the conversational opening he’d been waiting for. Cullen opened his mouth to ask **_Will_** _you marry me?_

Found himself, instead, saying, “Then I had best not ask you until there’s no longer a need for that additional inducement.”

 

Killeen didn’t seem to notice his evasion. “Let’s hope it’s not needed,” she said. “The amount of hazard pay required would bankrupt the Inquisition. Let’s stop talking about my sister. Come to bed.”

 

Guessing she sought a distraction, Cullen set himself to provide a thorough one.


	60. On Board - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen is seasick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters are shorter than usual. They just worked out that way! Normal services will resume soon, though!

 

 

_28 Kingsway_

 

 

* * *

 

Killeen hung over the rail of the galleon. “Fucking Maker-forsaken waves. What was He thinking, creating oceans?”

 

“The potion didn’t help?” Cullen asked.

 

“It’s kept me from being sick,” Killeen said. “Not from wanting to.” The galleon crashed over another wave and she groaned. “Next time I’m _swimming_.”

 

Cullen rubbed her back, all the comfort he could provide.

 

Their departure had gone smoothly, arranged with military precision, no surprise given the make-up of their company. The sea, however, was not at all smooth at this time of year, and it had been a rough crossing so far. Clouds on the horizon promised a storm that would make it even rougher. Dorian had been prostrate on his bunk since the ship had left Kirkwall harbour: Killeen had tried the same, then declared she would feel better in the open air. Cullen had been keeping her company by the rail for several hours.

 

“A day or two, no more,” he said, rubbing her back again, glad that she hadn’t put her armour back on when she rose from her bunk and thus at least could feel his touch.

 

Killeen moaned. “Another day of this will kill me.” She spat over the rail and raised her head. “Could you check on Thomas?”

 

“I’m sure he’s —”

 

“Please, Cullen,” she said. “I know Mia’s down there, but please, check how he is, and come back and tell me. If I go down there myself I _will_ be sick, Stitches or no.”

 

“All right,” he said. He had no love for the cramped corridors below deck himself, nor did he want to leave her to suffer the misery of seasickness alone, but if having his assurance that the child was well would make her feel better … “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

He made his way carefully across the deck as it slanted first left, then right, with the surging of the sea, and clambered down the stairs to the passengers’ quarters.

 

Through the door to the common room he could see a fierce game of Wicked Grace in process.

 

“I’ll call that,” the Bull’s rumbling voice drifted down the corridor. “You’re bluffing, chantry boy.”

 

Alistair, who to Cullen’s surprise and pleasure had matter-of-factly boarded with the rest of them, laughed. “Can you afford to find out?”

 

“Fuck, yeah,” the Bull said, and then a second later, “Fuck, no! How can someone with such shitty luck in life have such good luck at cards?”

 

“It’s a gift,” Alistair said. “Not the best of all possible gifts, I’ll grant you …”

 

The rest of the conversation faded behind him as Cullen knocked on the door to Mia’s cabin, and entered at her invitation.

 

Thomas was there, sleeping in a cradle slung from the beam that ran overhead. Mia gave Cullen a quick smile as he entered, held her fingers to her lips. Cullen nodded, and was careful to walk softly as he crossed to look down at the child, who was apparently unperturbed by the motion of the ship.

 

“He’s well,” Mia said softly. “He’s eaten, and he’s almost asleep.”

 

“And Jean?” Cullen asked, equally quietly.

 

“Well enough content to leave him with me,” Mia said with a touch of asperity. She’d offered to hold Thomas when Jean had baulked at the gangplank, to allow the other woman to be helped aboard by Rocky and Grim — and Jean had not asked Mia to relinquish the child once she was safely aboard.

 

“Shall I find her for you, and suggest …?”

 

Mia shook her head. “No. The more used she becomes to me caring for him the more natural it will be when I offer to make it a permanent arrangement. And he’s no trouble. How is Killeen?”

 

“Cursing the ocean, the waves, and the ship,” Cullen said. “She’s no sailor.”

 

“Poor thing,” Mia said. “It’s awful, being that sick. Each of my confinements, I was sick as a dog for the first months, enough to swear never to have another child.” She smiled. “An oath I broke four times, and each time wondered why I’d done it until the nausea eased. Ginger helped, in tea. Perhaps it would help with seasickness, too?”

 

“Perhaps,” Cullen said, willing to try anything if it would help Killeen. “I’ll ask Fel if we have any in our stores.”

 

Fel was not in his cabin to ask, however. Cullen checked the common room, and the Chargers’ cabin, without finding her. About to try the desk, he heard her voice in the shadows beneath the stairs.

 

“Ser Calenhad,” she was whispering. “It’s all right. Ser Calenhad! Come back. It’s just a boat.”

 

Cullen paused. “Fel? What’s happened?”

 

“Ser Calenhad isn’t used to the sea,” Fel said, straightening from where she had been peering in amongst the stores stacked behind the stairs. “He ran off somewhere.”

 

“He’ll come back when he’s hungry,” Cullen assured her.

 

“There are some pretty big rats on board,” Fel said. “He might not get hungry for a long time if he catches one.”

 

Considering the size of the rat he’d seen in the hold when helping Grim and Rocky load the horses, Cullen was not so sure that the kitten would come out best in a fight with the ship’s vermin. “I’ll help you look for him,” he said.

 

They hunted up and down the corridor, the ship’s increasing pitching making the task more difficult, and then down in the hold, without success. Fel’s little face grew tighter and tighter with worry.

 

“We’ll find him, cubling,” Cullen said as reassuringly as he could. “There’s not many places for him to go.”

 

“What if he’s stuck somewhere?” Fel asked. “He’ll expect me to find him! He’s only little.”

 

“If we don’t find him tonight, then everyone will look tomorrow,” Cullen said. “But he’s probably just made himself a nice bed somewhere, and is too sound asleep to hear —”

 

A woman screamed.

 

“Stay behind me,” Cullen ordered Fel, and bolted for the ladder that led to the passenger’s cabins.

 

The galleon rolled violently when he was still-halfway up it, nearly knocking him off. _We’ve reached the storm_ , he thought, glanced behind him to see Fel clinging to the ladder like a burr, and hurried to reach the top before another wave could hit. There were no further screams, but he could hear Jean’s voice raised from behind her cabin door, and headed that way.

 

As he reached it, the door flew open, and Ser Calenhad bolted out, fur so thoroughly bristled he looked like twice the cat he was. At the sight of Cullen, the kitten skidded to a stop, turned to run the other way, and then backed up against the wall, hissing, as Jean appeared in the doorway.

 

“Filthy, disgusting animal!” she snarled. “I’ll throw you over the side!”

 

“No!” Fel screamed from behind Cullen.

 

He seized her as she tried to charge past him. “Let me handle this,” he said, released her as she nodded. “You’ll do no such thing, Miss Jean,” he said to Killeen’s sister. “What is the matter?”

 

“That _creature_ has shat on my bed!” she snapped, and aimed a kick at the kitten.

 

Ser Calenhad darted away from her, up the corridor. Fel squeezed past Cullen and followed.

 

“I’ll arrange fresh bedding for you,” Cullen said as kitten and child headed toward the common room. “And —”

 

Instead of the common room, Ser Calenhad bolted up the stairs toward the deck. Fel grabbed at him, missed, and followed him up the steep steps.

 

With an oath, Cullen went after them.

 

The galleon was well in the teeth of the storm as he emerged onto the deck, tossing and rolling as the helmsman struggled to keep it on course against the battering of the waves. Rain sheeted down across the deck in blinding curtains, mingling with the spray from the waves that broke over the bow as the ship nosed down a wave and then lurched up the next.

 

Cullen wiped water from his eyes and looked around for Fel.

 

She was halfway toward the bow, crawling on hands and knees. Ahead of her, Ser Calenhad clung with all of his claws to a rope coiled beside the foremast.

 

“Fel!” he shouted, but the wind whipped his voice away before he could even hear it himself. Bracing himself against the motion of the ship, he started forward, staggering like a drunk. He reached the mast and clung to it as Fel reached Ser Calenhad and tried to prise him loose.

 

She had just succeeded when the galleon pitched more violently than before, the starboard rail almost touching the waves, nothing but sky visible to port. Cullen’s feet went from under him and —

 

Fel slid helplessly down the deck toward the sea.

 

Cullen gave up both the attempt to keep his feet and his hold on the mast, let himself slide and roll down the deck toward her. She lodged against one of the stanchions of the rail, scrabbled for a grip with the hand not clutching her kitten — he lunged toward her, fingers brushing her sleeve —

 

And she slipped through the rail and into the sea.

 

Cullen looked around desperately, fingers tearing at the buckles of his armour as the ship rolled back the other way, hiding the waves and Fel in them. _A rope, sweet Maker, this is a ship, there must be a rope …_

 

Down the galleon rolled again. Cullen had a glimpse of Fel’s fair hair in the murky green of the sea, already falling further back along the ship as the wind drove the galleon onward, yanked his breastplate off and —

 

Footsteps pounded past him and Killeen went over the rail in a long, flat dive.


	61. Overboard - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, what it says on the tin.

_28 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

Killeen had heard from those who had fought alongside the Inquisitor, or Lady Vivienne — Cullen among them — of the spells Knight Enchanters could cast, distorting time itself until all around moved at a snail’s pace, only the mage and her allies able to react and move at a normal pace.

 

She heard Cullen’s voice, ragged in the teeth of the wind, shouting _Fel_ , turned to see him clinging to the mast — saw Fel at the foremast, saw her lose her grip —

 

And the world slowed. Fel slid, ever so gradually, toward the rail — Cullen lunged after her, as sluggishly as if the air were thick as water —

 

Yet where Killeen stood, everything was clear and sharp. She could see that Fel would slide between the stanchions of the rail, could calculate to the heartbeat just how much too late Cullen would be —

 

She flung herself forward, shortening her steps as the deck tilted up before her, running uphill — reached the foremast and yanked free the knot securing the rope coiled beside it, a small quiet voice at the back of her mind wondering if that familiar loop and twist was common to both sailors and soldiers or a sailor’s knot adopted by soliders — turned on her heel and hurled herself toward the place on the rail where Fel was, at that instant, slipping through and over the side.

 

The galleon rolled violently again, heeling into the waves, the railing _ahead_ of her suddenly _below_. Killeen let gravity aid her, hurled herself downward —

 

In the five running steps it took her to reach the rail, she looped the rope beneath her arms and knotted it —

 

Passed Cullen, fumbling with his armour, stepped up onto the rail and hurled herself into the sea.

 

The water was shockingly cold. She suppressed a reflex gasp at the chill, surfaced, threw her hair out of her face with a toss of her head, and struck out, swimming to where she thought Fel must be.

 

A wave rose before her like a wall and in it, Killeen saw something that was not water, that was a small leg, a foot — she lunged, got a grip on it and hauled the girl toward her, righting her as soon as she was close enough.

 

“Fel!”

 

Fel gasped and spluttered, eyes round. From the collar of her shirt, a very bedraggled Ser Calenhad spat water and hissed his discontent at the waves.

 

Killeen felt for the rope she’d tied around her chest and thanked the Maker when it was still there. “Hold on to this,” she ordered Fel, and the girl nodded and took a firm grip. Killeen found the trailing end and began to pull on it, hoping desperately it had not been her imagination that it had been fastened to the foremast.

 

The rope went taut. Killeen hauled them all back toward the ship, hand over hand — then felt the rope vibrate with a movement that was not hers, and felt them moving faster than her own efforts could explain.

 

 _Cullen_. He’d found the other end of the rope and was reeling them in. _Maker bless you, you level-headed, clever, darling man._

 

The ship came closer and closer still, its barnacled sides looming above them like a wall and then, oddly, below them as a wave swept them high and the galleon wallowed in a trough. Killeen could make out Cullen, several other figures she guessed were sailors, and the massive form of the Bull on the other end of the rope, and then they plunged down again. They banged against the side of the ship and she lost skin to the barnacles, tried to fend off with her feet and keep her body between Fel and the ship.

 

Foot by foot, they were hauled upwards. Killeen felt the sharp edges of the barnacles tear her shirt and the skin beneath and gritted her teeth. _A little skin is nothing, compared to what could have been_ …

 

And then it occurred to her that what could tear cloth could also shred rope. She got her feet against the side of the ship, pushed them away from it, hoping to keep the rope from contact with the barnacles’ sharp shells. Looking up, she could see places where it was already beginning to fray.

 

Another wave and they were dunked sharply as the galleon rolled. Killeen lost her footing, scraped against the side of the ship, tried to brace with her knee — another foot higher — the galleon rolled the other way and they were all but lying on the side of the ship. She scrambled toward the rail, heedless of the pain on her hands and feet, gained a yard or two before they were going down again —

 

When they emerged from the water this time, Ser Calenhad clearly sensed safety. Killeen felt the prickle of his claws on her shoulder and then her head as he launched himself upward, scrabbling his way up the rope.

 

“Nearly there,” Killeen promised Fel, not knowing if the girl could hear her above the scream of the wind and the roar of the sea. Another foot, another … Maker’s balls, she could see the rope unravelling before her eyes. _Hurry, Cullen._

 

She could see him clearly now, leaning over the rail, taking a handful of rope and hauling it in. His hair was darker, dripping wet, the curls springing into life. Another foot … he looked down, judging the distance left, stretched out his hand — could not quite reach —

 

He met her gaze, eyes peat brown in the storm’s gloom, and reached again. Killeen stretched up, touched his fingertips —

 

Heard the rope finally give.

 

Saw Cullen grow smaller and smaller as she plummeted backwards into the waves.

 

Lost sight of him completely as the water closed over her head.

 

 

 

 

 


	62. On Deck - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a rope breaks, and other things.

_28 Kingsway_

 

* * *

 

Killeen hurtled past Cullen and disappeared into the boiling sea. Even as he grasped the rail, preparing to follow her, he heard the hiss of an uncoiling rope, turned to see the line unreeling from its fastening to the foremast …

 

_Maker, thank you for blessing me with a woman clear and certain in any crisis._

He turned back to gesture to the sailors on the forecastle. “Overboard!” he shouted. “Raise the alarm!”

 

One began to make his way, crabwise, to the hatch, and Cullen turned his attention back to the sea, clutching the rail as the heaving of the ship dipped him almost to the water’s surface, then flung him up towards the sky.

 

Hands on the rail beside him, large, grey. “Killeen!” Cullen shouted against the gale, pointed to the rope.

 

The Bull nodded, put a hand on the rope. It was slack — and then, abruptly, taught. The Bull wrapped it around his massive fist and pulled.

 

Cullen joined him, vaguely aware there were other hands joined to theirs, making the task easier, reeling in the rope which —

 

_Yes_. He could see them in the waves now, dark head and fair, tethered securely to the ship. He redoubled his efforts, Killeen and Fel coming close to the ship and closer still —

 

The galleon wallowed in the swell, rolling violently, the rail brushing the waves and then the ship pitching back until there was nothing to be seen but the grey streaked sky. Cullen braced himself against the movement of the ship, hauled on the rope — he could see Killeen clearly now, only yards away, one arm around Fel and the other wrapped in the rope — could see, too, the rope fraying against the razor-edge barnacles on the galleon’s hull — another foot of rope and a white blur exploded out of Fel’s shirt, swarmed up the rope and over Cullen’s shoulder, tiny claws drawing blood through his shirt —

 

Another foot, and he could almost reach them, stretched over the side, straining —

 

Killeen looked up at him, face utterly calm, eyes clear. Her fingers brushed his.

 

The rope parted.

 

She fell backwards away from him, and was gone.

 

_No._ “More rope!” Cullen bellowed, trying to see Killeen and Fel in the water. _There_ — a dark head, a fair one, rapidly falling behind the ship as the powerful wind of the storm swept the galleon onward. They were already almost too far for a rope from the ship to reach. “Tell the helmsman to turn around!”

 

“Can’t do that, ser,” one of the sailors said. “Can’t run into this wind, ser, not for anything.”

 

Cullen seized the Bull by the arm. “Make them turn the ship around!” he yelled over the wind.

 

“He’s right!” the Bull shouted back. “We’ll break up!”

 

“It’s an order, damn you!”

 

“The storm doesn’t give a shit!” the Bull yelled. “The weather wins, always!”

 

Cullen cursed, lost sight of the two in the water, strained to find them again. “ _Rope_ , damn you!”

 

Someone came running with one and he hurled one end as hard as he could to where he’d last seen Killeen as a sailor knotted the other to the rail. It fell well short of where he judged Killeen and Fel were, and he put his hands on the rail, preparing to vault into the sea.

 

Massive grey arms seized him around the waist and wrenched him away. “It’s too far, man,” the Bull shouted over the noise of the storm. “You can’t reach them.”

 

Cullen strained to loosen the Qunari’s grip. “I have to try!”

 

Grim and Dalish came hurrying up onto the deck, carrying barrels from their stores. Without releasing Cullen, the Bull nodded toward the rail, and the two Chargers slipped and slid down the deck and hurled the barrels overboard.

 

Cullen realised what they were doing: the barrels would float, would fall behind the ship at the same rate as Killeen and Fel were. There was no chance Kill could reach the ship, but she might well manage to reach something floating in the ship’s wake.

 

He stopped fighting. “Let me go. More hands —”

 

The Bull released him and Cullen scrambled toward the hatch leading below.

 

They made a chain, heaving everything that would float up onto the deck, passing it from hand to hand until it reached the Bull, at the rail, who heaved each barrel or cask over the side. Cullen forced himself to focus only on the difficulty of keeping his feet on the heaving deck, the weight of each wooden crate as it was passed to him, the splinters biting his palms, the chill of the rain drenching his shirt …

 

And then he turned for the next barrel and found his hands empty.

 

“That’s it,” Dalish said. “Nothing else that will float.”

 

Cullen stared at her blankly. “There must be something …”

 

The Bull put a big hand on his shoulder. “Anything now would be too far anyway,” he said. “Come below.”

 

“There must be —”

 

Strong hands turned him. “Listen to me,” the Bull said. “If she’s still in the water, it’s already too late. No-one could survive those seas.”

 

“No, I’ll —” Cullen turned toward the rail. “Someone should keep watch, she might —”

 

The Bull’s hand tightened. “Someone will,” he said. “Not you. Below, Commander.”

 

Cullen tried to resist, but found himself on the stairs — in the corridor —

 

For some reason, Dorian was lying on the floor by the stairs. The Bull pushed Cullen toward the common room and bent to haul the mage to his feet. “Well done, _kadan_ ,” he said.

 

Dorian groaned, eyes shut tight, skin glistening with sweat. The Bull picked him up without fuss, carrying him as easily as Cullen could carry Fel.

 

_Oh, Maker, **Fel**._

 

He staggered, caught himself against the wall. He had no idea if the girl even knew how to swim …

 

_Killeen swims, and swims well,_ he told himself. _She’d never let Fel drown._

He touched his wrist, felt the pulse pounding there. He had known at Haven that Killeen lived, because his heart was with her, and it still beat — and he had been right. He would be right this time. She was alive, in the waves somewhere, had reached some of the cargo they’d jettisoned.

 

She was alive. She _had_ to be alive. He would not admit any other possibility.

 

Cullen turned as a door opened, and saw Jean Hanmount. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Are we sinking?”

 

“No,” he said. “The ship is safe.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“Miss Jean …” He sought for kinder words, found none. “Killeen has gone overboard.”

 

Her eyes widened. “She’s drowned?”

 

“No!” Cullen said, took a breath, and went on in a more moderate tone. “We hope not. When the storm abates, we’ll search for her.”

 

“I see,” Jean said. “I’m very sorry, Commander.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’ll pray for her. If the worst has happened … may she find peace at the Maker’s side.”

 

“The worst has _not_ happened,” Cullen said. “Pray for her to have luck, and strength, and for us to find her quickly.”

 

“Of course,” Jean said. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, I do hope you’re right … I said so many unkind things to her …”

 

She covered her face with her hands and Cullen patted her shoulder. “You’ll have the chance to make it up to her,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

 

The ship pitched sharply, and Jean staggered. Cullen braced himself against the wall and caught her before she could fall. She clung to him for support.

 

“Cullen?” Mia said from behind him.

 

“Go back into your cabin,” Cullen told Jean. “The weather will be rough for some time yet.” When she didn’t immediately move, he took her by the shoulder and gently guided her in the door, then turned to Mia.

 

“Come in,” she said, standing back from the door to her cabin. “You’re drenched to the skin.”

 

He stumbled in and stopped in the middle of the room. A closed iron stove gave a little heat. Thomas slept, cradled in a hammock, and Stanton sat by the stove, staring at Cullen.

 

Mia closed the door. “Stanton, your uncle’s chilled. Make some tea for him. Take your clothes off, brother. There’s a blanket on the bunk you can wrap yourself in while I dry your things.”

 

Cullen did as she instructed, fingers clumsy with cold. Mia steered him to a seat by the stove, and set a mug in his hands, then spread his wet clothes over the stovepipe. “Killeen …” he said.

 

“I heard you telling Jean,” Mia said. “Drink your tea.”

 

He did. It was warm and sweet, and chased a little of the chill from his flesh, but couldn’t touch the ice lodged in his gut. He touched his wrist again, finding the pulse regular still. She was alive, out there, in the icy sea … she _must_ be alive, he would not admit any other possibility, he could not …

 

Mia took the empty mug from his hand, and a moment later said, “Here,” and set Thomas in his arms.

 

Cullen’s grip tightened on the baby automatically. As if through a fog, he looked down at the boy. “Is he …?”

 

“He needs a little comfort,” Mia said. “Hold him a while.”

 

Thomas seemed quite placid to Cullen. He shifted the baby to one arm and stroked the child’s hair gently, then the small, soft cheek. “Your aunt will be back soon,” he promised.

 

Thomas flailed one hand and clutched Cullen’s finger in a surprisingly strong grip. He stared up at Cullen with that grey gaze that was so much like …

 

_Oh, Maker, keep her safe. Lend her strength, oh my Creator, give her Your warmth in all this icy sea … Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter, blessed are the righteous … Maker, by Your mercy, bear her up among the waves, hold her in Your hand, beloved and precious … Oh Maker, hear my cry …_

Thomas squirmed and frowned as warm salt tears fell on his face. Cullen did not have a free hand to wipe them away, could not bring himself to tug his finger free of the baby’s grip …

 

A hand touched his hair, an arm around his shoulders. “There, now,” Mia said softly. “There, now. Ser Dorian spelled the things you cast overboard, to draw them to Killeen, to help her when she reached them.”

 

_Well done_ , the Bull had said as he lifted the exhausted mage in his arms.

 

“I will thank him,” Cullen said thickly.

 

“Krem said that Killeen is a strong swimmer,” Mia said.

 

Her voice held no conviction — only the same note of false comfort he had heard in his own, on battlefields, in sickrooms. _It’s a scratch, no more. You’ll be up and around in no time_.

 

She had been inches from safety, close enough to touch but not to grasp …

 

And gone.

 

 


	63. On The Waves - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cliff-hanger is resolved.

_30 Kingsway_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Killeen shook Fel’s shoulder. “Stay awake, Fel,” she said.

 

The girl raised her head a little. “Yes,” she said in a thread of a voice. “Sorry.”

 

“Not much longer,” Killeen promised.

 

Her heart sank as she realised that it was likely the truth, and not in a good way. _Two days …_

_Three things that kill you in threes,_ her old sergeant had said once. _Three weeks without food, three minutes without air …_

_Three days without water._

 

Killeen raised her head again, searching for any sight of land, for anything at all.

 

_Nothing_.

 

_We’re alive,_ she reminded herself, pushing away the fear. _We’re alive, and have no right to be._

As she’d struggled to keep them both afloat in the water, the galleon disappearing into the murk of the storm, a glow had caught her eye. Several minutes of exhausting struggle had brought her to the source: a floating barrel, weirdly luminescent … and even more strangely, warm to the touch. It had given them some respite, and when another had drifted closer, and another following it, Killeen had used the trailing end of the rope still tied around her chest to lash them together into a makeshift raft.

 

They’d floated out the storm, chilled by the rain but out of the freezing ocean, the eldritch warmth of the crates and barrels sufficient to keep them alive, the small size of their raft paradoxically sparing them the worst battering of the waves.

 

The warmth, and the glow, had faded by the morning. The storm had abated somewhat, and occasional rays of sun provided some relief from the cold, but there was no relief from hunger, or growing thirst.

 

_Waves break on shores_ , Killeen told herself. _Therefore, the waves will take us to a shore._

But, she was beginning to fear, not soon enough. The second night had been ghastly, both of them chilled to teeth-rattling shivers. They would likely not survive another … let alone the horrible irony of dying of thirst surrounded by water.

 

“Stay awake,” she reminded Fel again, reminded herself. The temptation to close her eyes and rest a moment was powerful … and it would be an easier way for both of them, to simply slip into sleep and not wake up, than the agony of thirst and delirium that awaited.

 

_No_. That was not going to be Fel’s fate. Whatever happened to her, Killeen, Fel would live, and grow, and thrive … would become a woman, would make her way in the world, would find love as Killeen had found it …

 

_Do you hear me, Maker?_ she thought. _Fel is going to have a good, long life. She is going to be whoever she is supposed to be._

_She is not going to die in the middle of this ocean._

_And neither am I_.

 

Not with Cullen waiting for her — searching the face of the sea for her, more likely. Not when they had finally found their way to each other after so long, not when they were on the verge of starting a new life, a family life, together …

 

_Pay attention, Maker. I am going to live through this, and so is Fel._

_If I were You, I’d want to be on the winning side._

_So a little help, oh my Creator …_

_That would be much appreciated._

 

After a time — how long a time, she couldn’t tell — Killeen became aware that the sounds around her had changed. She heard a gull cry, heard, too, the boom of breaking waves added to the hiss and susurration of the sea.

 

She raised her head and saw, off to their left, a green shape looming out of the mist. _Land_.

 

They were moving past it, though, not toward it.

 

The knots in the rope she’d used to lash the barrels together and herself and Fel to the barrels were swollen and tight from immersion. Killeen pulled at them, breaking a fingernail, and then remembered the knife in her boot. She reached down and found it still there, drew it out carefully with fingers numb with cold. The rope parted easily beneath its silverite edge.

 

She slipped the knife back into its sheath, holding her breath until it was safely tucked away, and then took a deep breath and slipped into the frigid water.

 

Hands on the edge of their makeshift raft, she summoned up all her strength and began to kick, striving to steer them toward the island before the current carried them past it. The chill of the water sapped the last of the strength from her limbs, making her long to simply let go of the raft and close her eyes and sleep …

 

_Fel_. Fel was on the raft. She would not let go of the raft. She would not let go of Fel.

 

She kicked and kicked, raising her head occasionally to get her bearings. The land seemed to get no closer, but nor did it get further away. The crash of the surf seemed to be getting louder … were there more gulls now than there had been?

 

She had to rest a moment, gasping, then began to churn the water with her legs again. Ten kicks, two heartbeats rest. Ten kicks, three heartbeats rest. Eight kicks, four heartbeats rest …

 

_Maker, let me save Fel, at least. Cullen is a good and loyal servant of Yours. Let me save her for him, Maker._

_He loves her like a father, Maker. He loves her as You loved Your creation, before You turned away from us._

_Let me save her, oh my Creator. Let me save her for him._

 

_And because she is a clever, wilful, good-hearted child, and there is no-one, Maker, no-one quite like her in all of Thedas._

_Give me strength. Give me strength. Maker, by Your mercy, give me strength …_

Suddenly, the surge of the sea was carrying them in the direction Killeen wanted to go. The waves were steeper, wilder, plunging them down and then hurling them upwards.

 

And then they were tumbling under and down, water pressing into her mouth and nose. Killeen clung to the raft, unable to tell which way was up, and light, and air, and life — her head broke the surface and she gasped a breath, was taken down again — her foot touched something solid and she pushed upward, found air again, was pushed under once more —

 

She touched the bottom and this time, when she kicked against it, her whole torso came out of the water. She hurled herself forward, dragging the raft, staggering toward the beach, lost her footing once as a wave hit her in the back and inhaled a mouthful of sandy water before she came up again. Shallower water, shallower still … she hauled the raft through the last waves and fell to her knees beside it, groping for her knife.

 

The rope around Fel yielded to the blade and she hauled the girl a little further from the water, laid her down, still and pale.

 

Killeen rolled her over. She pressed on the girl’s back and seawater ran from Fel’s mouth, pressed again, pressed a third time, and Fel vomited convulsively and began to breathe.

 

Crawling, Killeen managed to drag Fel up above the seaweed that marked the high-tide line before her trembling limbs failed her. She rolled the girl onto her side and lay over her, for whatever protection and warmth her own chilled body could provide —

 

And knew nothing more.


	64. In Safe Harbour - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a complication.

_28 Kingsway — 31st Kingsway_

* * *

 

They ran before the storm for three days.

 

From moment to moment, Cullen was seized with the urge to go on deck, to force the helmsman at sword-point to turn the ship back into the teeth of the wind, back to Killeen …

 

He did not. The ship’s captain, the sailors, the Bull, were united in the opinion that the galleon would have only a slim chance of surviving such a course. For himself, for the Chargers, he’d take the risk. All of them had long ago accepted that their lives might well be in the hazard by virtue of their chosen profession. But Mia, Jean — Stanton and Thomas … no.

 

He could no more risk them, even for Killeen, than Killeen herself would have.

 

_This is who we are. We stand in between the vulnerable and those who’d harm them, and we take the blows that others can’t …_

Her adult life had been spent risking herself to save others – she would never put even one defenceless life at hazard to save her own, let alone four.

 

But, Maker, this blow was more than he could bear.

 

He touched the pulse point at his wrist. _She lives. She lives_.

 

He would not, _could_ not, believe Killeen had drowned, but logic told him there was little chance of finding Killeen and Fel on the open ocean. _Little chance they will survive long enough to be found, even if they reached one of the barrels or crates we flung overboard_ — _in this weather, without shelter, without water …_

Little chance that they’d survived unless the current had carried them to some sort of land, even with the assistance of the spells Dorian had cast on the barrels and crates they had cast overboard.

 

_Just a little party trick back home,_ the mage had said, weak with illness and exhaustion. _A useful way to find one’s keys, don’t you know? Making them glow when you get close to them. And I added a little heat._

The effort of casting spells through the debilitating effects of sea-sickness had left Dorian prostrate, but the mage had continued to bespell the casks and crates destined for the ocean waves until he had collapsed — and if Killeen and Fel still lived, they might well owe their lives to those spells.

 

_They **did** still live. _The steady beat of his pulse told him Killeen _had_ survived, and she would never let Fel die … which meant they had made landfall somewhere … he poured over the ship captain’s charts, demanding answers from the man as to how the currents ran at this time of year, what effect the force of the storm would have – where were the most likely places they might have been swept to shore.

 

The captain gave his answers readily, but Cullen could see from the man’s face that he believed there was no use to them. Once or twice he tried to talk, gruffly, of the deep cold of the winter waves, that could sap the strength of a strong man and drown him even in sight of shore. Cullen ignored him, as he ignored the sympathy in his sister’s eyes, the grief in Dorian’s face.

 

_She lives. She lives_.

 

Killeen lived, and he would find her. Searching all the likely landfalls would be slow work, given the galleon’s speed and deep draw. _We’ll need a faster ship, one that can get closer to the shore._

 

Cullen instructed the captain to find the first harbour he could in the conditions, and studied the charts again.

 

Three days after Killeen and Fel had gone overboard, the galleon made safe harbour in the port of Amaranthine.

 

The storm still lashed them, but the power of the waves was less. _We will have to wait until the storm blows out before we begin to search_ , Cullen thought, leaning over the charts he’d spread on the common room table. _Even if we find a suitable ship immediately._

 

_At least that is more likely, given how many others are likely to have made for the nearest port in this storm._

 

“Is it true, what they say?” Mia asked. “About Amaranthine?”

 

It took Cullen a moment to realise that she was talking to him, and by then the Bull had answered for him. “Which bit?” the Qunari rumbled. “The bit where it was the richest port in Ferelden? The bit where the Hero of Ferelden turned the Arl into crispy fried lord-bits and Queen Anora gave the arling to the Grey Wardens in thanks?”

 

“Quite some thanks,” Mia said dryly. “If it was indeed the richest port in Ferelden.”

 

“It’s come down in the world since then,” the Bull said. “But still, the merchant traffic turns a pretty penny in taxes. It must have half-choked Ferelden’s frozen queen to see those coins tumbling into the Wardens’ coffers and not her own.”

 

“Then why did she?” Stanton asked.

 

“The arling of Amaranthine is a rich prize, a field of gold for a clever man or woman who knows how to plough it,” Alistair said, and the Bull grunted agreement. “And gold turns very easily to power. At least the Grey Wardens could never be a rival for Anora, and she’s a woman with a profound dislike of rivals.”

 

“Also it kept them out of court,” the Bull said. “And still close enough to keep an eye on.”

 

“Aren’t all the Grey Wardens gone, now,though?” Mia said.

 

“Yes,” the Bull said. “From Ferelden and Orlais, at least. Anora might invite the ones from Weisshaupt to Amaranthine, or create a new Arl.”

 

“If she can find one strong enough to hold it and spineless enough not to be a threat,” Alistair said.

 

“For now, the city, port, and arling are more or less a protectorate of the crown,” the Bull said. “Her troops keep order.”

 

“And her excise men take the taxes,” Alistair said. “A cynical man might just suspect this situation could continue for quite some time.”

 

A thump and a shout as the pilot boat came alongside. Cullen turned to the door. “I must go ashore as soon as we’re moored,” he said. Mia made a small noise of protest and he summoned up a reassuring smile. “You’ll be safe aboard with the Chargers until I return.”

 

"Not alone," the Bull rumbled.

 

“Amaranthine is –”

 

“Not alone,” the Bull said, immovable. “Grim and I will come along.”

 

“And me,” Dorian said from the doorway. “If any of you think you’re getting away with leaving me on this ghastly vessel while you yourselves walk nice, solid, _stable_ ground, you’re very much mistaken.”

 

Mia touched his arm. “Take them, Cullen. We’ll be quite safe here with the others – and all the sailors. I’ll feel better knowing you’re not alone.”

 

The harbour was crowded: they were not the only ones to have run before the storm seeking safe harbour. The pilot directed them to anchorage, all moorings being full.

 

It took an exchange of coin to persuade him to take passengers on his return to shore, but before long all four of them were standing on the dock.

 

“I must find Nightingale’s people,” Cullen said. _A far easier task on the road, where it was just a matter of waiting for the next green-clad figure to rise from concealment._

 

“You mean you have to let them find you,” the Bull said. “Come on. Harbour Master first.”

 

They presented himself at the Harbour Master’s office, requesting mooring for the galleon as soon as possible; enquired after lodgings at several of the nearer inns; made their way to the market despite the driving rain and made themselves conspicuous inspecting supplies.

 

Cullen was about to conclude the Bull’s plan was worse than useless when a stoutly built woman, red hair fading to grey, toting a cage of birds, called out to him, “Birds for your lady, ser? Larks sing as sweet as nightingales.”

 

_My lady is not here_ , Cullen wanted to snap, the idea of taking Killeen a present of chirping birds a sharply painful counterpoint to the reality.

 

Then he paused. _Nightingale_ might be a simple coincidence, but _Lark_ was the word used to stand in for _Inquisitor_ when needed. Cullen went over to the woman and pretended to examine the birds. “My lady has little interest in songbirds,” he said.

 

“If you’ve a pond in your garden, I know a man who can do you a good deal on a heron,” the woman said, and Cullen recognised another code, this one for Lady Josephine. “Or a falcon, if you’re a hawking man.” _Cassandra_.

 

“She has a fancy for a rookery,” Cullen said.

 

“Then you’ll want to try the _Gull and Griffon_ in Greystanes Lane,” the woman said. “That’s the place to find ravens and crows.”

 

“Thank you,” Cullen said. He relayed the message to the Bull. “It must be their meeting place.”

 

“Or a trap,” the Bull pointed out. “Did you know her?”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “But she managed to mention larks, nightingales, herons and falcons.”

 

“All that means is she’s seen some messages,” the Bull said. “If _I_ rolled up a network in a place like this, I’d replace them with my own people.”

 

“We have little choice,” Cullen pointed out. “Save resorting to the mails.”

 

“All the same, Grim and I’ll go first,” the Bull said.

 

Cullen rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If it’s a trap, four have a better chance than two.”

 

“If it’s a trap, it’s one set for _you_ ,” the Bull said. “Not a couple of out of work mercs. It’s a fucking pub, Commander. They won’t cut our throats just for walking in there.” He paused. “All the same, if we’re not back in fifteen minutes, go back to the ship, get out of here as soon as the weather will let you.”

 

Grim _was_ back in fifteen minutes, indicating with a grunt and a jerk of his head that Cullen and Dorian should follow him.

 

It was a short distance through Amaranthine’s narrow streets to the _Gull and Griffon_. Cullen knew at least five of the faces in the room the second he stepped through the door, from Skyhold, from Haven before it.

 

Once Grim, Dorian and himself were inside, one shut the door and bolted it. "Commander.”

 

“Perkins, isn’t it?” Cullen said.

 

“Yes, ser. We’re all friends of Nightingale here, ser.”

 

“I have urgent messages to send,” Cullen said. “First, to Nightingale –“

 

“You’ve urgent messages to read, ser,” Perkins said, holding out a handful of cylinders.

 

The cylinders handed to him were still sealed. Cullen thrust them in his pocket. “To Nightingale, Lieutenant Killeen missing, search of the coast near West Hill and Jader needed. Fast cutter required. To Guard Captain Aveline of Kirkwall, Killeen overboard, request search of shoreline by the Planasene Forest.I’ll be taking ship as soon as one suitable can be found – some of my company will need lodging here, and —”

 

“Ser!” Perkins said. “You really need to read those messages.”

 

Cullen took the cylinders out again. “What’s happened? What’s in these?”

 

“I haven’t read them, ser, but word came from Nightingale on the heels of them, putting us all on alert.”

 

Cullen cracked the seal of the first with his thumbnail and unrolled the parchment. “How long will it take you to find me a ship?” he asked, scanned the message and stopped.

 

“Bad?” the Bull asked.

 

Wordlessly, Cullen held the scrap of parchment out. _Attack in force by Venetori in the Hissing Wastes. Lark injured. Timing no accident._

 

“I thought we dealt with those shits,” the Bull rumbled.

 

“We did,” Cullen said. “The Inquisitor did.”

 

“Not well enough, if they’re back.”

 

“Someone’s back,” Cullen said. “You’ll return to Skyhold immediately. Mia and the children would slow you down – as would Krem, he can stay and watch over them until –”

 

“Commander,” the Bull said. “You’ll be coming back immediately as well.”

 

“That’s not possible until I find Killeen.”

 

“You’re not going to find Killeen,” the Bull said. “No one wanted to say it, but she’s gone, man. You’re not going to find her, you’re not going to find her body.”

 

"If anyone could —"

 

“If anyone could swim the Waking Sea in winter, it’d be Killeen,” the Bull agreed, “out of sheer bloody-minded determination. No argument on that from me. But no-one could.”

 

“She lives,” Cullen said. “I know she does. I’d know if she died.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” the Bull said. “All that mystical true love bullshit is just that – bullshit.

She went into the Waking Sea at the edge of winter in the middle of a storm and she drowned. You don’t want to believe it, and we’ve all been giving you time to come to terms with it, and fuck, I’d search the Waking Sea with you for the next six months if it helped, but there isn’t time. You’re the Commander of the Inquisition’s military and someone’s just tried to kill the Inquisitor. You’re needed.”

 

“Killeen lives,” Cullen said stubbornly.

 

“Fine, then she lives,” the Bull said. “Which means she’s ashore somewhere, right? Which means she’s able to take care of herself.”

 

“If she’s hurt – if Fel is –“

 

“They won’t be found any faster because you’re standing on the bow of the ship looking,” the Bull said.

 

“How thoroughly will they look if I’m _not_?” Cullen said. “If all on board think as you do?” He paused. “If the Venetori do pose a new and serious threat, the Inquisition will need Killeen.”

 

“It’ll need _you_ , and now,” the Bull said.

 

Cullen paused again. “If Lady Trevelyan orders me back, I will go. But not until then – and not unless she knows the situation here.”

 

“And if she’s not in any state to send an order?”

 

Cullen gave him a wry smile. “Then Leliana will doubtless forge her signature.” He turned back to Perkins. “Those messages must be sent at once, and a suitable ship for searching the shores of the Waking Sea found and provisioned. We’ll hire one if necessary, if the crew and captain are competent and trustworthy. And the Inquisitor must be notified of what has happened – and asked if she wishes to order me to return.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Perkins said, and hurried away.


	65. In The War Room - Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, exposition.

_1st Harvestmere_

* * *

 

Evelyn Trevelyan made her way into the War Room, leaning heavily on her staff for support. Even the short distance from her quarters had her forehead beaded with sweat, and Cassandra suspected that beneath the cloak she’d wrapped around herself, the bandages on her leg and side would show spots of blood.

 

“You should be resting,” Cassandra said sternly, moving to offer her arm for support.

 

Evelyn took it and leaned heavily. “I’ve rested enough,” she said. “I’d like to sit though. Can anyone tell me why we’ve never put any blighted chairs in here?”

 

“I will have one fetched,” Josephine said immediately, and left at a near run.

 

 _Glad to have something to do_ , Cassandra thought.

 

As they all would be glad to have something to do. The days since word had come from Harding in the Hissing Wastes that the Inquisitor had been injured had been trying for them all. Once Skyhold was put on alert for a possible attack on the heart of the Inquisition, and a small force led by Cassandra and well-staffed with healers had ridden out to meet Lady Trevelyan’s party on the road and bring her safely home, the only people with useful activity to occupy their hands had been the healers tending Evelyn.

 

In Vivienne’s absence, Evelyn was the most accomplished healer in Skyhold, and that had likely been all that saved her and her companions from death at the hands of the unexpectedly large and powerful force of Venetori spellbinders they had found camped in the Hissing Wastes.

 

Still, even her best efforts on her own behalf, married with those of Skyhold’s other healers, had not been sufficient to allow her to rise from her bed these past few days, and from the look of her, she should not have risen from it now.

 

Josephine came back, two servants bustling behind her with one of the chairs from her office, which they set by the War Table with great reverence. Cassandra helped Evelyn to sit in it, and the mage leaned back with a sigh of relief.

 

“Water?” Josephine asked.

 

“Wine, I think,” Evelyn said. “That Antivan vintage I know you’ve got tucked in a drawer. And information. What’s going on?”

 

“Our sources in Tevinter have not been much use,” Leliana said. “If Dorian were here, he could perhaps discern nuances that I cannot, but there is little sign in the Imperium that this force is under the control of someone there.”

 

Evelyn moistened her lips with the wine Josephine brought. “Perhaps that was all of them. Perhaps their master or mistress was among the dead.”

 

“No,” Leliana said. She glanced at Cassandra, eyebrow raised. _Tell her all?_

 

Cassandra nodded. They had agreed not to trouble the Inquisitor with all they’d learned until she was recovered, but Evelyn Trevelyan was made of stern stuff, for all her physical fragility. _If she is well enough to sit up and express a preference as to her choice of wine, she is well enough to hear the truth._

 

From her pocket, Leliana drew a handful of scraps of parchment. “Harding recovered these from the bodies of the mages you killed.” She gave them to Evelyn. “They are incomplete, but enough can be made out to tell that they were under instructions from someone elsewhere – a woman, it seems. Instructions to kill you.”

 

“No coincidence, then,” Evelyn said.

 

“The rumours of a lost tomb in the desert seem likely to have been deliberately planted to draw you there,” Cassandra said.

 

“We heard those from a merchant, didn’t we?” Evelyn said.

 

Leliana’s lips thinned. “Yes. He will explain himself, when he is found.”

 

“So, someone unknown with enough authority to command or gold to buy the service of a significant number of mages and soldiers wants me dead,” Evelyn said.

 

“The Venetori likely needed no inducement to undertake the task,” Cassandra said. “What concerns me more is where they came from. The Inquisition’s work has reduced them to scattered bands of opportunistic vagabonds. They should not have the power or resources to mount such an attack – and we should have heard before now if they had rebuilt such.”

 

“My failing,” Leliana said.

 

“Or our enemy’s design,” Cassandra said. “Even your birds cannot hear a song sung only behind closed doors.”

 

“That suggests a great deal of planning,” Evelyn said.

 

“And a great deal of power,” Cassandra said. “To provide a place of secrecy and safety for the enemies of the Inquisition to grow so strong.”

 

Evelyn sighed. “Excellent,” she said. “I was just thinking to myself the other day that waking up every morning in reasonable confidence that I’d see the evening was getting boring. Where are Cullen and the Chargers? Have we word?”

 

“We do,” Leliana said. “A storm forced them to Amaranthine.”

 

“Then they’ll be back here soon,” Evelyn said. “Good. Send word to Vivienne to come to Skyhold as soon as she can.” She glanced at Josephine. “But more politely, Josie, you know what to say. If this enemy is smart, she’ll understand that the way to strike at me is through the people I care about. I want all my people safely inside these walls as soon as possible. Is there word of Cole?”

 

“No,” Leliana said. “Not since he failed to take ship with Commander Cullen in Gwaren.”

 

“Well, find him!” Evelyn snapped.

 

"There is more," Leliana said. "The Commander is _not_ on his way back.” She hesitated. “Killeen Hanmount was washed from the deck of the ship during their crossing. He remains in Amaranthine to mount a search for her. He believes she must have come to shore, and still lives. Iron Bull is not so confident.”

 

Evelyn closed her eyes a moment. “Maker,” she said softly. “That’s – poor Cullen.” She reached out a hand to Josephine and the diplomat took it in both her own.

 

“He says he will return if you order him,” Cassandra said. “And it likely _is_ a fool’s errand, Inquisitor. The Waking Sea is cruel, in any weather. In a storm …”

 

Evelyn shook her head. "No," she said. "He’d be convinced that he _could_ have found her, if only I’d allowed him to search, and he'd never forgive me. Let him search until he accepts the truth. We'll manage without him.”

 

“If we are to be at war —” Leliana started.

 

Evelyn cut her off with a raised hand. “ _To be_ is the relevant part of that sentence. We are not at war _yet_. We will have ample warning of any army moving against us in force, and we do not know the name of our enemy to attack her. Write to Cullen and to Bull that I trust the Commander to make any orders that he considers prudent, and make any arrangements for the safety of his family that he sees fit. And, Leliana, if there’s anything you can do to find Killeen …”

 

The Spymaster nodded. “We watch the coast,” she said. “If she had come to shore, I think I would have heard it by now. Still, my people will search. The Commander has sent word of the places he thinks she might have come ashore.”

 

“All right,” Evelyn said. She finished her wine. “Then I think I’ll seek my bed again.”

 

“There is one more thing,” Josephine said. “The storm that took the Commander off course has had other consequences. Flooding along the Orlesian coast. The grain stores of many towns were damaged – and also those of Val Royeaux.”

 

“Have we sufficient to send aid?” Evelyn said.

 

“No,” Cassandra said. “We have a growing tent city outside our gates who will spend the winter under canvas in the Frostbacks simply to be close to you. We have no food to spare.”

 

“That is not the problem,” Josephine said. “It appears that Queen Anora has reached out the hand of friendship to Celine. She has offered her the funds to purchase food for her people.”

 

“As a gift?” Evelyn said.

 

“As a loan,” Josephine said. “On what terms, I do not know, but I doubt they will be favourable to Orlais.”

 

“I very much doubt it too,” Evelyn said. “No. We can’t tolerate such a substantial shift in the balance of power between Ferelden and Orlais, although I can see why it’s attractive to Anora.”

 

“In more than one way,” Leliana said. “It was rumoured that before he died, King Cailan was negotiating to put her aside and take Celine to wife.”

 

“What a bag of wet cats,” Evelyn said. “I know we’re all very grateful to the Hero and all that but putting that woman on the throne of Ferelden wasn’t the best day of work she did.”

 

“You were not there,” Leliana said. Her voice was even but her eyes were fierce. “You do not know the choices she made, or why she made them.”

 

“You could tell me,” Evelyn said pointed out.

 

“I have not told you before now because it is not my secret to tell,” Leliana said. “But there is one more problem, also related to Queen Anora, and the actions of that long-past day. Iron Bull informs me that they have acquired a new travelling companion, a former Templar called Alistair.”

 

“How is he a problem? Is he a spy for Anora?”

 

Leliana smiled slightly. “Hardly. She exiled him under sentence of death.”

 

“Wait, he is _that_ Alistair?” Cassandra said, remembering long-past evenings over wine as the Right and Left Hands of the Divine got to know each other.

 

“Yes,” Leliana said.

 

“ _Which_ Alistair?” Evelyn asked, and when both Leliana and Cassandra hesitated, “Andraste’s tits, _one_ of you tell me what’s going on before I feel the need to pull rank.”

 

Leliana folded her hands before her. “You have heard in the stories of the Hero of Ferelden that she was one of _two_ Grey Wardens to survive Ostagar. The other was a young man, who had been destined for Templar service before being recruited into the Wardens.”

 

“I’ve read the stories,” Evelyn said. “He’s mentioned, but barely.”

 

“His role was greater than the stories tell,” Leliana said. “His name was Alistair, and he was one of the closest companions of the Hero.” She paused, and Cassandra saw her expression shift — from bard recounting a tale, to a woman talking of her life. “Of Solona. He travelled with her, with us, almost to the very end. He was in love with her, and she with him. But, as you know, to slay an Archdemon, a Grey Warden must give their life …”

 

“And they were the only two,” Evelyn said softly. “How awful for them.”

 

“It is a tragic story,” Cassandra said. “Tragic, and extremely romantic.”

 

“Maker save me from that sort of romance,” Evelyn said. She smiled at Josephine. “I much prefer the sort that comes with a happily-ever-after.”

 

“So did Solona,” Leliana said. “Ferelden was in the throes of a civil war as well as the Blight. You know, of course, that many blamed Loghain Mac Tir for King Cailan’s death. Alistair was among them. And … he was King Cailan’s half-brother, the illegitimate son of King Maric.”

 

“Then shouldn’t he be King?” Evelyn asked.

 

“So many thought,” Leliana said. “Solona brought the matter to a head at the Landsmeet, and defeated Loghain in combat. And she saw a way that she and Alistair might both survive the Blight, and be together. Rather than propose Alistair for the throne, and separate them forever, she supported Anora’s claim. And conscripted Loghain into the Grey Wardens.”

 

“To kill the Archdemon in her or Alistair’s stead,” Cassandra said.

 

“Then what went wrong?” Evelyn said. “Because I know where Loghain is, poor bastard, and everyone knows the Hero was the one who died.”

 

“Alistair could not forgive Solona for sparing Loghain’s life,” Leliana said. “Perhaps in time, he would have … you must remember, they were very young. We were _all_ very young. Queen Anora immediately sentenced him to death, seeing his claim to the throne as a threat. Solona persuaded her to spare his life, but Alistair would not listen to her reasons for what she had done. He left — renounced his claim to the throne, declared he was no longer a Grey Warden. And Solona … the young do not believe they can survive a broken heart, or mend a fractured love. She took the task of slaying the Archdemon on herself.”

 

“What a Maker forsaken mess,” Evelyn said.

 

“Yes,” Leliana said softly. “Alistair spent his exile in Kirkwall. Arl Teagan persuaded Anora to allow him to return to Redcliffe, but after Alexis evicted Teagan and the Arl went to Denerim to seek aid from the crown, Alistair … he might not have believed Anora’s forgiveness would continue if he were to come to her notice. He disappeared. It seems that he returned to Kirkwall.”

 

“Why does no one know this?” Evelyn asked. “He was a hero.”

 

“King Maric’s son, betrothed if not actually wed to the Hero of Ferelden, who risked his life and limb saving Ferelden from the Blight … that is not a story Anora wishes widely known. Some know it, those of us who were there. Myself, the Commander. Morrigan. Perhaps Varric, from his time in Kirkwall. I believe Alistair is quite a garrulous drunk, and he has been very often drunk since Solona died.”

 

Evelyn sighed. “And now he’s here. Practically under Anora’s nose, in Amaranthine. Andraste’s tits! Tell the Bull to keep him quiet and out of sight until he can drag him up here for me to have a look at.”

 

“It might be wiser to cast him upon his own devices,” Leliana said. “Perhaps pay his return passage to Kirkwall. Or … send him as a gift to Anora.”

 

“Absolutely not!” Evelyn snapped. “If he’s travelling with Bull and Cullen, it must be because they want him to be. I trust their judgement — and I’m not casting a man who fought the Blight onto Anora’s mercy.”

 

“Thank you,” Leliana said softly. “I will convey your instructions — to Iron Bull and to the Commander.”

 

“And now you truly should rest,” Cassandra said firmly, and the Inquisitor nodded, and let herself be helped away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	66. In The Chantry - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone finds solace in prayer.

_2nd - 4th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

Cullen read the return messages from the Inquisitor and Leliana with enormous relief. _If she had ordered me to return to Skyhold_ … he truly did not know what he would have done.

 

Duty would have dictated he obey, just as duty had driven him when he ordered Killeen to Haven …

 

But that morning he had not truly understood what he risked losing. He had known she was more precious to him than his own life, had known that if she did not return he would go through life maimed as surely as a man who had lost an arm or a leg …

 

But he had not known, then, the astonishing joy of waking every morning with her in his arms and knowing that he would wake so for all the rest of the days of his life — not known how profound his happiness would be at hearing her whisper _I love you, my darling, beautiful man_ — not known that love returned was love deepened —

 

He had told her that he did not think he could make such a decision again, between her safety and his duty.

 

He had not thought to be presented with it quite so soon.

 

_If the Inquisitor had ordered me back to Skyhold …_

Cullen did not know if he would have obeyed, or if he would have refused, resigned his position.

 

He did not know how he could have lived with either.

 

_When I find Killeen, we have to resolve this._

_When_ , he insisted, to himself, to the Bull, to Mia. _When I find Killeen and Fel, I will return here, and we’ll all travel on. The Bull and the Chargers are needed back at Skyhold, and I do not want you chancing the road alone. Krem will remain with you, and you’ll be quite safe. Amaranthine is not Kirkwall._

 

He was relieved she agreed without demur — more relieved that Jean, too, was agreeable to the plan, as he’d feared she’d take the detour and delay as opportunity to set out on her own to some unknown destination. Mia’s friendliness to her had obviously paid a dividend — or her sister’s danger had had a sobering effect.

 

Alistair volunteered to stay as well. When he reeled back to their lodgings in the small hours cheerfully mangling a ballad that seemed to be the Blight — the words _hurlock_ and _steel_ were discernible but not much else — Cullen suspected that the other man’s eagerness to protect Mia and Jean had more to do with the greater availability of taverns in Amaranthine than on the road than any chivalrous impulse.

 

_Still, he was by all accounts drunk as a lord when he saved Killeen’s life_ , he thought.

 

Cullen and the others remaining settled in to their lodgings, while the Chargers and Dorian made ready for the road, and departed. Killeen’s armour Cullen set carefully on a stand in the corner of his room, her sword and shield beside them. _She will need them again, when I find her._

_She **will** need them again. _

Her cloak, too, he brushed clean of the salt from the sea-spray, and hung. The winter in Skyhold would be cold, colder even than they had endured in Haven — Killeen would be glad of that cloak, come Haring and Wintermarch.

 

Finding a ship turned out to be more difficult than finding lodgings. Cullen was forced to leave it in the hands of Perkins, who knew the vessels which regularly plied Amaranthine’s harbour, who could be trusted, and who not. The delay chafed; the confines of their lodgings chafed; the knowledge that Killeen might even then be hurt or in danger and he could do nothing to help her burned.

 

Returning on the second day with the news that there was, as yet, no news, he suddenly found the closeness of the common room, the crackle of the fire, Ser Calenhad’s purring, the look of silent sympathy on Mia’s face, intolerable.

 

“I’m going —” _Where_? “To the chantry.”

 

“May I come with you?” Jean asked. “I would like to light a candle. For Killeen.”

 

Cullen did not really wish for company, but manners dictated only one reply. “Of course,” he said.

 

“I’ll fetch my cloak,” Jean said.

 

Her dainty shoes were no match for Amaranthine’s slippery cobbles, and Cullen offered her his arm as they made their way to the chantry.

 

“Did Killeen come to believe?” Jean asked. “She was terribly blasphemous when she was younger.”

 

Cullen heard _Maker’s geriatric truss_ in Killeen’s voice, and smiled at the memory. “She still is,” he said. “I’ve had little luck breaking her of the habit, but then, she’s had little luck breaking me in to it.”

 

Jean picked her way around a pile of refuse. “I pray the Maker takes her to His side, despite it.”

 

“When the time comes, many years hence, I am sure he will,” Cullen said.

 

“Oh,” Jean said softly. “You think she might be alive, don’t you?”

 

“She _is_ alive,” Cullen said firmly.

 

They had reached the chantry. Jean gasped a little at the sight of the impressive building with its rich stained-glass windows glowing against the gloom of the overcast day.

 

“The Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer,” Cullen said. “It marks the place Andraste first revealed the Chant of Light.”

 

“Of course,” Jean said. She let go of Cullen’s arm to allow him to step forward and open the chantry door for her. “I learned that in school, I just hadn’t …”

 

“Thought it was a real place one could visit?” Cullen said, remembering his own first sight of the place.

 

Jean stepped through the door and stopped, gazing around at the ornate engravings and rich rugs. “Yes. I mean, they’re beautiful stories, and I believe in the Maker, but …”

 

Cullen walked forward to the statue of Andraste, one of the finest he had ever seen. Despite the customary lack of detail, the sculptor had managed to impart subtle expressions to Andraste’s face — determination in the angle of her chin, hope in the arch of her eyebrows, tender love in the lines of her lips. He dropped coins in the collection box and took two candles, turning to hand one to Jean. “But it is not as easy to imagine Andraste when she lived, when she worried about the same things we worry about, feared for those she cared for.”

 

Jean took the candle. “Yes.”

 

Cullen knelt before the statute and held his candle to one already burning. He had come to pray for Killeen’s safety, for her quick return to him, but … _there are other things as important to Killeen as her own safety._ “Andraste was a mother, too,” he said. “There is a story that her youngest daughter fell in love with a mage from Tevinter — this was during the Exalted March, so …”

 

“An unsuitable match, as Mama would say,” Jean said, kneeling beside him and lighting her candle from his.

 

“Very.”

 

“Did she forbid it?” Jean asked.

 

“No,” Cullen said. “She wanted her daughter to be happy. She allowed her to go into exile with the man she loved, even though it meant she’d never see her daughter again.” He paused. “What was best for her daughter was more important to her than keeping her near.”

 

Jean gave a small snort. “I don’t think _my_ mother heard that bit of the story.”

 

“We have the example of Andraste to guide us because those around us don’t always provide such good guidance,” Cullen said, and then, fearing he had been too heavy-handed, “You dislike Denerim so much?”

 

“I dislike my parents’ house,” Jean said with sudden venom. “More than I have words to express.”

 

“Where would you go? If you could choose?”

 

“Anywhere,” Jean said. “Everywhere. Antiva. The Imperium. Val Royeaux.” She sighed, hard enough to make the candle flames flicker. “But I never will.”

 

“Because of Thomas?” Cullen asked, and when she nodded, “And if someone cared for him for you? Would you go to Antiva and the Imperium and Val Royeaux then?”

 

“If I could find a man to take me,” Jean said. “Which I thought I had, twice. The first got me Thomas and the second left me in Kirkwall.”

 

“Perhaps as well as praying for Killeen, you could pray for guidance,” Cullen suggested.

 

Jean laughed. “For a rich, elderly merchant?” she asked. “Or perhaps a young and handsome knight?”

 

Cullen cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant that there might be ways for you to travel on your own account, and Andraste might show them to you. She saw much of the known world herself, you know.”

 

Jean looked up at the statue. “I suppose she did,” she said thoughtfully, and then bowed her head over her clasped hands.

 

Cullen did likewise, letting the quiet of the Chantry flow into him, allowing the verses of the Chant to come as they would.

 

_Now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun. With iron shield she defends the faithful … Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, the Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds._

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What You have created, no one can tear asunder. The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal — but know that the sun always rises._

Behind him, the door opened and closed again, and footsteps hurried toward them. Cullen half-turned, hand on the hilt of his sword, then relaxed as he saw it was Perkins.

 

“Ser,” the man said, gasping for breath a little. “Ser, I’ve a ship for you.”


	67. On Shore - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, yet another cliffhanger is resolved

_30 Kingsway_

* * *

 

Killeen woke from a dream of searching for water in the Hissing Wastes to a burning thirst that thickened her tongue.

 

_Water. We need to find water._

 

She rolled off Fel. “Wake up, honey,” she croaked. “Come on. Wake up.”

 

The girl stirred, sat up. Her face was wind-burned, hair stiff with salt, eyes red and swollen. Killeen guessed she was in much the same state herself.

 

“Thirsty,” Fel said, coughed.

 

Killeen raised herself on hands and knees, considered it a minor triumph with how stiff and sore her muscles were. “Me too. We have to find water. Come on. Get up.”

 

She pulled herself upright, staggering, and looked around. A long stretch of beach in one direction, more pebbles and shale than sand. A rocky headland in the other, difficult to climb in the best of circumstances – and these were not the best of circumstances.

 

At the rear of the beach, thick trees. There might be a pool or spring concealed in them, but Killeen doubted she could force her way far through the thickets.

 

_Water flows downhill to the sea_ , Killeen thought. _If there’s a stream, it’ll run down to the shore._

She held out her hand to Fel and hauled the girl to her feet. “Come on.”

 

They trudged along the beach, both stumbling and staggering as the pebbles shifted treacherously beneath their feet. The stiff wind off the ocean whipped their hair into their faces and grabbed their breath, slicing through their damp clothes. At least the effort of walking warmed them a little, but Fel was still shivering.

 

_After water, warmth and shelter,_ Killeen thought to herself, ordering her priorities by what would kill them fastest. _Thirst, cold, hunger_.

 

The end of the beach showed an easier headland than the other end, and Killeen cautiously clambered up it, peering over the other side. _More rocks_. She leaned her head against the rocks, closing her eyes. _Maker, how far can I risk us searching the shore before I have to accept the trees as the best option?_

 

No voice from above answered her. All she could hear was the wind and the gulls.

 

_The wind, the gulls … and running water._

 

“Come on up, honey,” she croaked to Fel, and slid down a little to help the girl with the hardest parts of the climb. “Hear that? That’s water. Let’s find it.”

 

It was a long, wearisome search among the rocks, but eventually the sound grew louder, and then Killeen squeezed between two boulders and saw a thin stream trickling down the rocks and pooling at their base. She stooped and cupped a palmful to her mouth, spat it out when she tasted salt, then tried the trickling fall.

 

It was fresh and sweet.

 

“Here, Fel,” she said, and the little girl followed her. “Drink from where it’s falling, not the pool.”

 

They drank and drank, slaking days of thirst, washed salt and sand from their eyes, and drank again.

 

“Now we know it’s here,” Killeen said, “we’ll be all right. We can always come back, if we can’t find another.”

 

Fel nodded. “We should mark the way,” she said. “If we can find a rock sharp enough to mark the others.”

 

“Good thinking,” Killeen said. “We’re going to find somewhere to stay dry, and start a fire, and find some food, all right? We need to rest a bit before we start working out where we are.”

 

“There aren’t any other people here,” Fel said.

 

“There’s lots of places where there aren’t many people,” Killeen said. “We might have to walk a while to find some. Now, I think we should go back to the beach and look in the trees. We’ll need wood for a fire, and if we’re lucky, there’ll be some fennecs or nugs or something.”

“I know which plants are safe,” Fel said. “If they’re like the plants at home.”

 

“That’s good,” Killeen said. “You’d make a good scout, Fel. Living off the land. This is like … it’s practice, right? For scouting.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Fel said, starting to make her way back down the rocks to the beach. She paused. “Except no mushrooms, though. I’m not awfully good at mushrooms.”

 

“Good warning,” Killeen said dryly, imagining just how wrong a choice of fungi could go.

 

They made their way back down the rocks to the beach and then into the shelter of the trees, which were warped and gnarled by the constant battering of the wind. Killeen found a few fallen branches, but they were damp with salt-spray, and would be useless for a fire.

 

“We need to get further away from the shore,” she said.

 

“Isn’t that further away from the water, too?” Fel asked.

 

“It is. But we need to get warm, which means we need to find dry wood. Look.” Killeen drew her knife from her boot and blazed a cross on the nearest tree. “I’ll mark the way so we can find our way back when we get thirsty.”

 

Fel nodded. “I never knew how thirsty you could be,” she said after a moment as they picked their way deeper into the trees.

 

“It’s a good lesson to learn.” Killeen marked another tree. “I bet neither of us will ever go anywhere again without a canteen on our belts.”

 

“Not even to the privy,” Fel said devoutly, and Killeen laughed.

 

“What else should we have?” she asked.

 

“Flint and steel,” Fel said. “And food.”

 

“The food would have got wet,” Killeen said. She tested another fallen branch, found it less damp than the others.

 

“Jerky?” Fel asked.

 

“All right, flint and steel and jerky. And you don’t have a knife.”

 

“Fish-hooks and line,” Fel said. “If we’d had that, and we hadn’t come to shore, we could have caught fish.” She paused, and then wriggled through the undergrowth. “Kill! Come and see!”

 

Killeen followed her more slowly, having to cut her way through the thickest bushes. “Fel? Don’t get too far away. Where are —”

 

The last bush yielded to her knife and she saw Fel, beaming at her. “Look!”

 

It was a small clearing made by a falling tree, the massive trunk of which still lay, half-rotten, among fresh saplings. In falling, it had clearly struck several others, forcing them out of true, so they leaned together and formed a natural windbreak. _And rain shield_ , Killeen thought, touching the ground beneath them and finding it bone-dry.

 

And, best of all, she could hear a thin trickle of running water not far away.

 

“Well done, Fel,” she said. “You’ve earned yourself a promotion.”


	68. In The Common Room - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia tries to write a letter

 

 

_4th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

After the weeks on the road, the disconcerting luxury of the Hawke Estate, and the fierce tumult of the crossing, Mia found the ordinary, peaceful domesticity of their lodgings slightly unreal, as if it were normal to sleep on the ground, or in a bedroom with marble inlaid floors, or tossed back and forth by the wild rocking of the sea — as if wooden floors and straw-stuffed mattresses were what were bizarre.

 

She might almost have been at home, with the fire crackling in the hearth, sitting down to write one more doubtless-unanswered letters to Cullen as the pie for dinner bubbled in the oven …

 

Except Cullen was not away in some distant place she knew only from a map, he was somewhere in the city just outside the door of their lodgings — and the room was full, not of her family, but of the strange assortment of people who were now her companions.

 

Krem sat by the fire, his bad leg propped up on a stool, mending a shirt. Stanton was curled in the window seat, Ser Calenhad in his lap, and Jean was reading a book while Thomas slept in his cradle in the corner.

 

_Staring at a book_ , Mia amended to herself, _as I’m sure she hasn’t turned a page these ten minutes._

 

_Not that I am one to talk_ , she thought, looking down at the perfectly blank piece of parchment she had sat down to write on half-an-hour earlier. _I’m as bad as Cullen!_

 

She dampened her ink block, lifted the quill …

 

Set it down again with a sigh.

 

Krem flicked a glance her way at the sound, and she gave him a small smile. “Those are lovely, even, stitches, Cremisius,” she said, leaning over to look at the shirt he was mending.

 

“My father was a tailor,” Krem said. “It’s ruinous of my credibility as lieutenant of the fiercest merc company south of the Waking Sea but I can’t seem to break the habit of doing a job the way it should be done.” He glanced over at Stanton. “Come over here, lad, and I’ll show you a trick for when a shirt’s more holes than cloth. You’ll need to know how to mend your lord’s things when you go as a squire.”

 

“Won’t there be servants and seamstresses for that?” Stanton asked, but he set Ser Calenhad carefully on the floor and came to stand by Krem’s chair.

 

“On the road? The night before a battle? Or maybe, visiting some castle where you don’t know what else besides thread might be sewn into the repairs? No. It’ll be up to you. Now, look, you need a bit of solid fabric to anchor your stitch …”

 

Mia, who had mended more threadbare shirts than she could remember, let his voice drift past her, and turned her attention back to the letter half-written before her.

 

_Mistress Anandra, I very much regret the need to inform you that your daughter Felandaris —_

She still couldn’t find the words for the rest of the sentence. _Perhaps it’s just as well. The news of her daughter’s death, so late in her confinement, with her health poor …_

_Perhaps I should simply let it wait._

_The blow may be less when she has a new babe in her arms._

She looked up at Stanton, now practising the demonstrated stitch under Krem’s supervision. _If **he** had been the one lost overboard … _

There was nothing she could imagine that could soften such a loss and no words to make it anything less than a blade in a mother’s heart.

 

Folding the parchment, she tore the words she had already written, dampened her ink-block, and started again.

 

_Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, I have sad news of Felandaris. She was lost from the deck of the ship crossing the Waking Sea. Such news should not be broken to her mother by letter, and so I must ask you to convey it to who-ever is her friend within Redcliffe Castle, that they may tell her more gently than any letter could do._

She did not sign the letter. _Felandaris was Cullen’s squire, and the letter should come from him._

 

Leaving the ink and quill ready for her brother when he returned, Mia crossed to the window. It was growing dark, but she could still see the street, although not make out much in it. “Did Cullen say when he would be back?” she asked Krem. In the corner, Jean looked up from her book.

 

“For dinner,” Krem said. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath. Even if he finds Alistair, there’s not many ways short of cold-cocking him and carrying him out over your shoulder to get that man to leave a tavern before he’s ready.”

 

“Well, we’ll have to come up with ways to keep him from going _in_ to the tavern, once Cullen’s gone,” Mia said firmly. “Since I don’t fancy either of our chances carrying him.”

 

Krem’s rolled eyes said clearly as words, _Good luck with that._

 

“Is he really going to go?” Jean asked quietly.

 

“My brother has a stubborn streak,” Mia said. “If, as you said, they have found him a ship, he’ll be on it as soon as weather and tide allows.”

 

“Yes, but —” Jean said, and stopped. “He must realise, underneath, that there’s no point. He can’t be that much of a fool.”

 

“I wouldn’t call him a fool,” Krem said unexpectedly, while Mia was trying to frame a rebuke in more gentle terms than the ones which came immediately to mind. “We are talking about a woman they dug out from under several tonnes of dragon, still breathing. To my mind, if the Waking Sea took her on, it’d better’ve brought friends.” He snapped off his thread neatly. “I wouldn’t bet on Killeen Hanmount being dead no matter how good Varric’s odds were unless I’d seen her grave, and even then, I wouldn’t bet more than I could afford to lose.”

 

Jean gave a small snort. “You make her sound like the Hero of Ferelden, or something. She’s just Killeen. She can’t command the wind and waves.”

 

“Oh, she’s not the Hero, or the Inquisitor,” Krem said mildly. “She’s just as stubborn as a mule and as lucky as a whole wagon-load of rabbit’s feet. And the Commander wouldn’t give up on her even if she wasn’t.”

 

“He’ll have to give up eventually,” Jean said.

 

“If the time comes when he does, it’ll half-kill him,” Krem said. He paused, turning the shirt to find any other tears. “Last summer, when she was getting over the dragon, they had some misunderstanding, or falling out. Killer said she didn’t want to see him again. He was like a man walking around with a mortal wound he hadn’t felt yet until they sorted it out.” He tucked his needle and thread away in his pouch. “So if the Commander chooses to believe she’s alive, I’ll believe it along with him until there’s proof otherwise.”

 

Mia looked down at her unsigned letter, and then folded it, and slipped in into her pocket. “And so shall I,” she said.

 

“And me,” Stanton said stoutly.

 

Jean picked up her book again and turned a page.

 

Mia pressed her lips together. _If I didn’t need her to agree to yield Thomas …_ Well, there were a few things she could think of to say to Killeen’s sister, starting with _a little grief or hope for the sister who travelled half across Thedas to save you and your son wouldn’t go amiss_ and continuing on to _if my brother should turn out to be foolish enough to have his head turned by your wiles you can count on me to put him straight._

 

_Patience_ , she counselled herself. _Patience. Cullen wishes Thomas safe, and cared for. Be patient with Jean. Win her trust. Win her friendship._

_Win her son, and **then** tell her what you think of her._

Downstairs, the door banged. Footsteps on the stairs, and then Cullen came in, followed by Alistair.

 

“Draw the curtains, Stanton,” Cullen said, and the boy leapt to obey.

 

Mia expected their ex-Warden stray to be reeling drunk, but he was steady on his feet, if a little flushed. A noise made her turn back to Krem, and she saw that he’d risen carefully to his feet, reaching for the sword leaning against the wall. “Trouble?” he asked Cullen.

 

“I think we gave them the slip,” Cullen said.

 

As Stanton finished closing the curtains, Alistair came all the way in to the room and shut the door behind him. “I really _should_ have gone to Skyhold,” he said.

 

“What’s happened?” Mia asked.

 

“Are we in danger?” Jean interrupted, clutching her book to her chest, and then, _no doubt realising it ruins the effect of her neckline_ , dropping it to her lap and clasping her hands to her stomach.

 

“No,” Cullen said quickly. “There’s no danger.”

 

“Not to you, anyway,” Alistair said. He hung up his cloak and trod on the heel of first one muddy boot, then the other, to remove them. “You’re tracking mud on your sister’s clean floor, man,” he said to Cullen, who hurried to copy him. Now in socks, Alistair padded across the room to Mia and produced a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. He smoothed it out and handed it to her with a flourish. “I can’t say it’s a _terribly_ flattering likeness …”

 

_Wanted_ , the parchment said, above a sketch that was recognisably Alistair, _for treason._

The reward offering was staggering. Mia stared at it, and then at Alistair. “What did you _do_?” she asked.

 

“Was born,” he said succinctly. “It’s a long story, Mistress Mia, and your brother and I have been the extremely long way around to get back here without —” He paused. “Difficulty. Please tell me there’s food.”

 

“There is,” Mia said. “Beef pie, in fact.”

 

Alistair beamed at her. “My favourite,” he said. “Mistress Mia, if you were not already married to a no-doubt strapping farmer with hands like hams, and if I had a pot to piss in, I’d insist you married me.”

 

“Alistair …” Cullen almost growled.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have any younger sisters, would you?” Alistair asked Mia, undeterred.

 

She laughed. “I do, one, but she can’t cook to save herself.”

 

“Now my heart is broken twice over!” Alistair declared mournfully, and then brightened. “Although, of course, you could always adopt me. I know I’m probably past the usual age for such things, but that just means you’ll be spared all the tedious bits!”

 

Mia laughed again, and gave him a shove toward the table. “Behave,” she said. “My own sons give me enough trouble without adding a wanted man to it.” About to put the notice on the desk, she glanced at Jean and thought better of it, balling it up in her hand and tossing it into the fire instead.

 

Perhaps also thinking of Jean, neither Cullen nor Alistair offered any further information over dinner, and Krem did not ask. Mia could see Stanton was near to bursting with curiosity, but he was too well brought up to pepper his uncle with questions.

 

Not until the meal was done, and Krem had volunteered himself and Jean to clean up the kitchen, was her _own_ curiosity satisfied.

 

“This is not to be spoken of again,” Cullen warned Stanton. “Not even among us — the more often something’s said, the more chance of it being overheard.”

 

“I understand,” Stanton said solemnly, eyes wide.

 

“Anora wants me dead,” Alistair said softly, “for reasons I won’t go into —”

 

“Nothing to his discredit, Mia,” Cullen interrupted.

 

“I wouldn’t think it could be,” Mia said firmly, and Alistair looked at her, for once without his usual expression of cynicism and facetious whimsy. He looked, suddenly, both younger and older than she had thought him to be: a man, rather than an ageing boy.

 

“Thank you, Mistress Mia,” he said quite gravely and then he grinned and the familiar merry drunk was back. “Anyway, I’ve been exiled under penalty of death off-and-on for ten years. I thought it was currently _off_ but apparently Anora has decided it’s _on_. Which is a _little_ awkward.”

 

“More importantly,” Mia said, “Since I doubt she’s had the city papered on the off-chance — how did she know you were here?”

 

“I’ve seen no-one who knows me,” Alistair said. “Someone in Kirkwall must have seen me going aboard and —”

 

“Then she’d expect you in Denerim,” Mia pointed out, “since that’s where we were bound.”

 

“Maker’s _breath_ ,” Cullen said, and closed his eyes. “I sent word to Skyhold. _Not_ through the mails. But somehow that message has been shared with the Queen — and I very much doubt by a decision of the Inquisitor.”

 

“Well, Commander,” Alistair said. “It looks like your problem is almost as bad as mine.”

 

 

 


	69. In The Woods - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen and Fel explore

 

_1st Harvestmere - 2nd Harvestmere_

* * *

 

“All right, honey,” Killeen said. “I’m going to see where the water is. You find as much dry leaves and branches as you can to make a fire. Dry as you can find, understand?”

 

Fel nodded, and began to immediately search around the clearing on hands and knees.

 

Killeen left her to it, and began to force her way through the undergrowth in the direction of the sound of running water. She marked trees as she went, to make it easier to find her way back, and cut back branches and shrubs along the way to make an easier path between the water source and … she realised she was already thinking about it as _their campsite._

_Well, if we can make a fire, it’s the best we’ve found so far._

The water turned out to be a small but strong stream, and when Killeen bent to dip her fingers and taste them, fresh. Even better, she could see the small many-toed tracks of nugs in the soft soil of the stream’s banks. _The most stupid, easy-to-catch animal in Thedas._

 

Sinking down into the undergrowth, she held still and watched. Sure enough, in only a few moments, a nug came nosing out of the bushes. It wandered down to the stream and dipped its head to drink …

 

And Killeen rolled out of cover and plunged her dagger through its neck.

 

It squealed and died. She hoisted it to her shoulder and started back toward Fel.

 

The girl had found a scant double handful of dry leaves, a larger pile of what she described as _sort of dry_. Killeen tested the latter, judged them dry enough to burn if the fire they were laid on was hot enough.

 

“We need more dry fuel, honey, if you don’t want to eat raw nug,” she said.

 

It was a long, exhausting search, and they were both trembling with cold and fatigue by the time they had a pile of kindling that Killeen judged to be sufficient — but Fel didn’t complain once.

 

“You’re very brave,” Killeen told her through chattering teeth as she painstakingly made a hollow in the largest piece of dry wood they had.

 

Fel shook her head. “I’m not,” she said. “I was really scared, in the water.”

 

“Me too,” Killeen assured her. She selected the most likely twig, piled their driest kindling around the hollow.

 

“You weren’t!” Fel said.

 

Killeen smiled at her, aware her smile was likely more a rictus. “I was. I just have more practice at not being. Now, come here. Put your hands above mine, that’s right. We’re going to spin the twig back and forth very fast. When my hands reach the bottom, you take over. When your hands do, I will. Got it?”

 

“Uh-huh!” Fel said.

 

It was, perhaps, the worst way to make fire that Killeen knew, apart from praying. Both their hands were red and stinging, and the twig was spotted with blood, by the time she saw a tiny thread of smoke from the leaves piled around the hollow where the twig met the wood.

 

She stooped and blew. _Gently, gently, gently!_ The faintest glow, a trickle of smoke … she poked another leaf in, blew again, gently, gently …

 

It caught.

 

Quickly, hands shaking with eagerness, with the need to be careful, she built the fire, leaf by leaf, twig by twig, until it was strong enough to allow her to add the less-dry wood.

 

Even then, it was a small, smoky, fire, but it gave out at least a little welcome heat.

 

“Stay close, honey,” she told Fel. “Get warm — and make sure it doesn’t go out. You know how to add enough wood, not too much?”

 

Fel nodded. “I watched on the march,” she said. “From Haven. I watched you and Ser Bear at the fire.”

 

“Good,” Killeen said. She stood, had to pause as the clearing swung around her, then hefted the dead nug. “Food soon,” she promised.

 

Neither as a Guard nor as a soldier had she been pushed to learn how to live off the land. In Kirkwall, food was already in barrels or sacks when it arrived in the city, with the exception of kitchen gardens, chicken coops and the occasional goat. In the Inquisition’s army, food was ordered by the wagon-load, disappeared into the kitchens and emerged as meals.

 

However, she had vague recollections of Harding talking about _using everything of the nug but the squeak_ , and so she was careful as she butchered the nug, finding branches well away from their camp and well off the ground to hang the innards and sweetbreads, doing her best to damage the skin as little as possible. Eventually she had a small pile of meat — unappetising under normal circumstances, but under current conditions, she would almost have been willing to wolf it down raw.

 

Back at the fire, she held it piece-by-piece over the fire until it seemed more or less cooked. The first piece she gave to Fel, the second she ate herself in two bites, barely chewing.

 

It was widely agreed by everyone but dwarves that nug was revolting, but to Killeen, it was the best meal she’d ever eaten, and from Fel’s eager expression as she waited for her next piece, the girl agreed.

 

They alternated until the meat was finished, and then Killeen wiped her dagger on her breeches and sheathed it. She put her arm around Fel’s shoulders. “We’re going to be all right,” she said, and for the first time it was a statement of fact. “We’ve got heat, food, and water. We’re going to be all right.”

 

“The fire is going to run out of wood,” Fel said.

 

“We’ll find more,” Killeen said. “If we pile it under cover, it’ll dry faster.” Her stomach shifted uncomfortably, consequence of guzzled nug after days of fasting. “And now, we should make latrine arrangements. Find us somewhere well away from here, and in the opposite direction to the stream, while I find some more wood.”

 

Fel nodded, but didn’t move. “I wish Ser Bear was here,” she said in a small voice after a moment.

 

“So do I,” Killeen said, heartfelt truth. “But we’ll be all right on our own, won’t we? We’ve done well so far.”

 

“Yes,” Fel said. “Kill?

Killeen rubbed the girl’s thin shoulders. “What, honey?”

 

Fel turned her head to look up at her. “How do you not be afraid when you are?”

 

“It’s just practice,” Killeen assured her.

 

“Yes, but …” Fel frowned. “Practice _how_?

 

“Well, I …” Killeen hesitated. “I think about a box. Inside my head. A strong chest, with banding and a lock. I put my fear, everything that isn’t useful, inside that box, and lock it, until the danger is past.”

 

“Do I have a box?” Fel asked.

 

“I think everybody has one,” Killeen said. “Just not everybody needs it, or knows how to find it.”

 

“Oh,” Fel said. “Kill?”

 

“Yes, honey?”

 

“Do you think there are bears or wolves here?”

 

“I didn’t see any tracks,” Killeen reassured her. “And even bears and wolves need to drink, so they’d go to the stream.”

 

“Unless there’s another stream,” Fel pointed out.

 

“Then they’re all the way over at it, and not here,” Killeen said. “Didn’t Cullen tell me you made your way half across the Hinterlands by yourself? Did you worry about bears and wolves then?”

 

“No,” Fel said. “But I had Ser Calenhad then. And now he’s drowned.” Her voice caught on the last word.

 

Killeen wrapped her arms around the girl and held her close. “No, no, he didn’t, honey, he ran up the rope to the ship before it broke. Didn’t you see?”

 

“No,” Fel said. She looked up at Killeen. “Is that the truth or are you just saying it because I want it to be true?”

 

“It’s the truth,” Killeen said firmly. “I saw it with my own eyes. He’s safe on the ship with Cullen.”

 

Fel gave a huge sigh and began to cry, almost silently.

 

Killeen cradled her, stroking her hair, until the storm of sobbing passed and Fel sat up a little, scrubbing her face with her fists. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s all right,” Killeen said. “I cry too, sometimes. Sometimes you just can’t help it.” Fel gave her such an incredulous look that Killeen couldn’t help laughing. “It’s true, sweetling. Even Cullen cries, when he needs to. There’s no need to be ashamed of tears for a good reason.” She ruffled the girl’s hair. “Now. Latrine duty. I’ll get more wood for the fire.”

 

It was not a good night, both of them huddled together for warmth, Killeen rousing herself every hour to tend the fire, but it was still better than being on the raft. Once the thin grey light of dawn began to lighten the trees around them, Killeen woke Fel to tend the fire, and crept back down to the stream, catching and killing two more nugs.

 

She butchered them the same as the last one. Without any way to cook to sweetbreads, the most use she could put them to was to bait a hook and try and catch a fish … _If I had a hook. And a line._

 

When she got back to the fire, Fel had stripped a green branch from one of the saplings and partly sharpened one end with a rock. Killeen finished the job with her dagger and threaded chunks of nug-meat onto it, making their meal much faster than the night before.

 

“What did you do with the skins?” Fel asked between bites.

 

“I hung them on a branch,” Killeen said. “I thought we could try and keep warm with them. But the one from last night has turned stiff.”

 

Fel nodded. “Hides do that if they’re not tanned. Did you keep the heads?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said.

 

“Good. The Maker gave every animal enough brains to tan its own hide.”

 

“What?” Killeen asked. “What does that mean?”

 

“It’s something Scout Harding says.” Fel picked another lump of meat off the twig and blew on it. “For any animal, you can tan its hide with its own brain and two times water.” She ate the meat in three hungry bites. “We’d need something to soak it in, though. And we don’t have any pots.”

 

“Well, we won’t be here that long,” Killeen said. _I hope._ “Once we’ve eaten, we’ll walk along the shore until we find some people and find out where we are.” She ate the last piece of the first nug and threaded the chunks of the second onto the twig. “Have a big drink of water before we go, all right? We don’t know how long it’ll be until we find more.”

 

In fact, as it turned out, water was plentiful along the shoreline, brackish streams running down to the sea that were fresh enough to drink once they’d followed them inland a little way. When the sun was overhead, they stopped and ate some of the meat from the second nug that Killeen had been carrying, still threaded on the cooking twig, over one shoulder.

 

They saw no-one: no footsteps on the sand, no sails out to sea, no smoke from cooking fires. For a while, a green smudge of land was visible across the water, and Killeen strained her eyes to see if there was a village, a lighthouse, a building of any kind — she tried to think of where on the coast they might be, that was so uninhabited. _Jader_ , _perhaps. Or one of the Fingers._

 

Finally, as the sun was sinking, they scrambled over a particularly steep headland and saw tracks on the beach that were, even at a distance, definitely human. Killeen felt her heart lift, slid down the last few rocks and hurried across to them, Fel struggling to keep up.

 

_Two people, perhaps a day ago, one of them a child …_

Then she saw the broken fragments of barrels washing in with the tide, and knew the truth.

 

“Kill?” Fel said from behind her.

 

Killeen swallowed hard, pushed everything down into the box in her head, and turned. “Well, sweetling,” she said calmly. “It looks like we’re on an island.”


	70. On The Siren - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen and Alistair meet an old ... acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the timelines are moving at slightly different speeds.

 

_5th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

“Well, _hello_ , handsome.”

 

Cullen hauled his gear onto the deck of the ship, took a moment longer than necessary to settle it, looked up. “Hello, Isabela.”

 

“It’s a _delight_ to see you again, chantry boy,” the pirate queen said, leaning against the foremast, one hip cocked.

 

“I am glad your ship is available for hire,” Cullen said stiffly.

 

Behind him, Alistair guffawed. “That’s what _she_ said,” he said, slinging his own gear to the deck and dropping down from the rail. “Admiral, isn’t it, now? How absolutely _charming_ to see you again. Not least because you owe me three silver.”

 

“Oh, the _Prince of Ferelden_ ,” Isabela said, less enthusiastically. She glared at Cullen. “Any damages are above and beyond the agreed price.”

 

“But let’s agree now that your gambling losses don’t come under _damages_ , shall we?” Alistair said. “Besides, you’re on awfully thin ice for someone who was barred from the _Hanged Man_. That takes quite some doing.”

 

“ _That_ was a stitch-up,” Isabela said haughtily. “I wasn’t even there that night.”

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go below,” he suggested to Alistair. “Give the sailors room to work.”

 

Alistair sketched half a salute and picked up his gear. Cullen hoisted his own, made heavier by the addition of Killeen’s arms and armour, and followed.

 

He had had mixed feelings about Perkin’s proposal that Isabela and the _Siren’s Calling_ be the Captain and ship hired for the search. On the one hand, she had an unparallelled reputation as a cunning and competent captain, and her ship was renowned for its speed and manoeuvrability.

 

On the other, he knew very well she was unprincipled, opportunistic, and utterly self-serving.

 

He had mixed feelings, too, about Alistair accompanying him. Despite the hazards of Amaranthine for a man who couldn’t pass a tavern without going inside, the ex-Warden could have been at least some assistance to Krem if some unlikely danger _did_ threaten Mia and the children. However, the appearance of _Wanted_ placards with Alistair’s name and a not-bad likeness of him had made his absence from Ferelden imperative.

 

Cullen had considered sending Alistair to Skyhold, to report in person their suspicions about the compromise of Leliana’s network, but Krem had pointed out that Queen Anora most likely had ordered the roads watched.

 

Stanton had drawn himself up to his full height. “I’ll go, Uncle.”

 

Mia had opened her mouth to object, and then taken a deep breath and gone to busy herself changing and feeding Thomas.

 

Krem’s steady voice, “He’s up to it, Commander.” Cool professional assessment from a career soldier and the right-hand man to a long-term Ben-Hassrath agent …

 

And Stanton, eager to prove himself, scared enough to be careful …

 

Cullen had set him on the road himself, that morning before dawn, riding Steelheart with Firefly on a lead rein to change off and spell the stallion. Tucked inside his jacket he carried a letter written by Cullen but dictated by Mia — Cullen’s neck burned with embarrassment to think of it, although Mia had taken great enjoyment in its composition — a letter addressed to Cassandra and containing phrases of such indecent intimacy that, should Stanton be stopped and searched, his cover story of taking a letter to his uncle’s secret love would surely be believed.

 

Written nowhere but in the lad’s memory were the three phrases that were his true charge: _The warden is looked for in Amaranthine — he has gone to sea — Nightingale’s birds sing more than one song._

 

Even should Stanton not be recognised as Cullen’s nephew when he sought an audience with the Inquisitor, Cullen had confidence that his request would be passed upwards — the soldiers and staff at Skyhold were well enough trained to know Evelyn would take the time to speak to anyone who claimed such a relationship, true or not.

 

And he would instruct Isabela to put the _Siren’s Calling_ in to some port other than Amaranthine if they found Killeen and Fel —

 

 _When_.

 

_When we have found Killeen and Fel._

 

Cullen stowed his gear, taking extra care with Killeen’s, and sat down in the hammock in his cabin, trying to ignore the smallness of the room and how low the ceiling was. _I should let the ship clear the harbour before I go back on deck_ … The timbers creaked as the sails filled with wind, the ropes of the hammock groaned as the motion of the ship increased, his pack gave a soft mew as …

 

He blinked, and looked at the pack. There was another, quite definite _mew_. The edge of the pack moved slightly.

 

Standing up, he crossed to the pack, knelt, and unlaced it.

 

Ser Calenhad poked his head out through the lacings and began to purr.

 

“Maker’s _breath_!” Cullen carefully picked up the kitten, who rubbed his cheek against Cullen’s thumb and purred more enthusiastically. “And what am I supposed to do with _you_?”

 

A knock on the door was immediately followed by the door opening. Cullen made an attempt to hide the kitten behind his back, realised it was futile, and looked up to see Isabela lounging in the doorway.

 

She grinned. “I knew you were soft, chantry boy, but I didn’t think you’d need to bring your pet for company.”

 

Cullen felt his cheeks heat.

 

“ _Come on, chantry boy, you know you want to …”_

 

_Isabela grabs his hand and places it firmly on her breast. “There you go, like that, you’ll get the hang of it.”_

_Her lips, soft against his, her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders, her flesh warm and yielding beneath his touch … she presses against him, hips rocking, moans a little as his fingers tighten. His head is spinning, the smell of oiled leather and metal polish and sweat intoxicating … but that’s wrong, he smells spicy perfume and sea-salt …_

_“Let’s get you in properly the mood, chantry boy,” she whispers against his mouth and before he quite knows what she’s doing, she slips free of his grasp and drops to her knees. Her fingers are busy on his belt and then —_

_Do you like this? How about this?_

_His hands fist in her hair and he jerks her away from him, hard enough to pull strands from her scalp. “No!”_

_Isabela yanks herself free, glares at him. “All right! A polite no-thank-you would have done. Anyway …” she eyes him, smiles mockingly, “Looks like you_ don’t _want to, after all.”_

_Cullen burns with humiliation._ I’m as much a man as anyone _, he wants to say,_ only —

 

_Only I take a demon to my bed._

He blinked. That had been long ago, well, more than a year ago. It was no longer true. He did not dream of the demon, did not think of the demon …

 

 _Because Killeen is always careful not to wake her_.

 

Every time she kissed his chest, and stopped before he could fear she’d move lower … every time she said _All right?_ instead of _Do you like that? …_

Each and every time, careful not to wake the sleeping demon he’d brought to her bed.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re seasick,” Isabela said.

 

Cullen swallowed against sudden nausea that had nothing to do with the motion of the waves. “No. And the cat is a stowaway.”

 

“Want me to toss him overboard?” Isabela asked.

 

Cullen found himself holding Ser Calenhad protectively close in the crook of his arm. “No. He’s the pet of my squire.”

 

Isabela raised an eyebrow. “Keep him out from under the feet of my crew, then. Now. We’ve set course for Highever, but Perkins said you wanted to go to the islands of the Storm Coast.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “We’re looking for a member of my company who went overboard a day out of Kirkwall. The shore near West Hill and Jader, and the Planasene Forest, can be searched from land. But there are a number of islands.”

 

“He must have something pretty valuable on his body,” Isabela said.

 

“Her,” Cullen said. “It’s Killeen Hanmount we’re looking for. I recall you know her.”

 

Isabela took a breath. “I do. I did. I’m sorry to hear it.”

 

“We’re not looking for her body,” Cullen said. “She’s alive. We’re looking for _her_.”

 

“You’ve had word of her?”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “But she lives. And in this weather, at this time of year, it means she’s come ashore somewhere. There are three islands off the Storm Coast most likely —”

 

“You’re excluding the Maimed Fingers?” Isabela said, naming the large islands that stretched up from West Hill.

 

“For now,” Cullen said. “They’ve enough fishers and shepherds on them that if they’ve come ashore there, they’ll have help.”

 

Isabela raised an eyebrow. “They?”

 

“Killeen. And my squire, Felandaris.”

 

She gave a pointed look at Ser Calenhad, and most deliberately did not comment. “Four islands.”

 

Cullen frowned. “Turtle, Ironview, and Belmere.”

 

“Yes,” Isabela said. “Turtle, Ironview, and Belmere Islands. And Dragon.”

 

“Dragon Island? I haven’t heard of that.” He tried to remember the charts. “Where is it?”

 

“Few have,” Isabela said. “It’s not large, close to the coast. South of Belmere.”

 

There had been a shipping hazard marked on the charts south of Belmere Island. “And has dragons on it?”

 

Isabela laughed. “No. It’s shaped that way —” She sketched a profile in the air with one hand. “It looks like a sleeping dragon from the coastal side. If a raft was swept past the other three it might end up there. If it didn’t, at this time of year there’s a deep water current that’d take it to the Orlais coast.”

 

Cullen shook his head. “If they’d come ashore there, we’d have heard by now,” he said. “They’ve not come to a coast.” He paused. “Why is this island not marked on the charts as one?”

 

“There’s only one safe approach,” Isabella said, “and that’s from the Storm Coast, and it’s a shallower draw than any sea-going vessel can manage — and treacherous. Stories say there was rich fishing off Dragon Island, and a small village of fishers who made good money, and a port on the Storm Coast that served them — but the port is long lost, if there ever was one.” She shrugged. “As far as a ship’s captain or a cartographer is concerned, Dragon Island _is_ nothing more than a tricky bit of navigation.”

 

“But Killeen might have come ashore there.”

 

Isabela paused. “As likely there as anywhere,” she said at last.

 

“Then we’ll search there, as well,” Cullen said. “We’ll search until we find them.”

 

“It’s your coin,” Isabela said. She shrugged. “Waste it how you want.”

 

Cullen sat down again as she left, letting Ser Calenhad settle on his lap. _Four islands_ … Killeen and Fel would be on one of them.

 

They _would_ be. It was the only possibility he would admit.

 

It was the only possibility he could bear.

 

 


	71. On The Island - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen makes an unwelcome discovery

 

_2 Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

 

“What are we going to do?” Fel asked, quite calmly: a sensible question about their next steps, not a frightened request for reassurance.

 

“We’re going to have something to eat,” Killeen said, “and find some more wood before it gets dark, and have a good think.”

 

Fel nodded. “All right,” she said, and began to trudge up the beach toward the forest.

 

Killeen paused to look over the wreckage of the jetsam they’d come to shore on. _That rope might come in handy,_ she thought, and began to try and unpick the knots, not wanting to cut it into any shorter lengths than it already was.

 

The knots were swollen with water and stubborn. She was beginning to consider whether it might be better to try and break up the sodden wood they were tied to when she heard Fel say, very quietly, “Kill?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“ _Kill,_ ” Fel hissed.

 

About to straighten, Kill realised she could hear something besides the murmur of the waves and the whisper of the wind.

 

It was a creaking noise, regular, rhythmic. And it was accompanied by a sound that Killeen could only describe as a flap. A powerful, _leathery_ flap. _Creak-cre- **eak** -whoosh. Creak-cre- **eak** -whoosh._

She held very still. “Fel,” she said softly. “What is it?”

_Creak-cre- **eak** -whoosh._

 

"A dragon," the girl whispered.

 

"Does it see us?" _Creak-cre- **eak** -whoosh._

 

"No. I don't think so."

 

It could be a wyvyrn. Even a gurgut. That would be bad, of course, but not as bad as a dragon. With luck, cunning, and the right choice of terrain, she stood half-a-chance against a wyvern. _Creak-cre- **eak** -whoosh. _"A big dragon? Or horse-sized?"

 

"It's pretty big," Fel said. "More house-sized than horse-size." Then, "Kill, it's looking at us."

 

"Don't move," Killeen said. _Oh, Maker, does that work on dragons? Or is it bears? Or both? Or neither?_ "Be stone. Be rock. Be still."

 

Although she wanted nothing more than to run, and run, and run, she followed her own advice, shoulder-blades crawling as if the dragon's gaze was kindling fire from her shirt and smoldering embers were working their way closer to her skin. _Don't move. Don't move. They see movement._

 

_Be stone. Be rock. Be still._

 

Her arms began to ache with the weight of the wreckage she had been hoisting and her back to cramp at the angle she was bending. Sweat ran down her forehead and stung her eyes. Her knees trembled. _Be stone._

_Be rock._

_Be still._

 

"It's gone," Fel said some uncountable time later, and Kill dropped the mess of splintered wood and rope and quickly turned to see for herself.

 

The tree line was empty, the sky blank.

 

"Let's go," she said to Fel. "Now."

 

The little girl didn't need telling twice. Abandoning the wreckage, they ran hand-in-hand across the sand and into the cover of the trees.

 

Once they were well and truly under cover, Killeen stopped, leaning against the nearest tree. “Are you all right?” she asked Fel.

 

The girl nodded, panting a little. “That was my first really truly dragon,” she said, eyes wide and round.

 

_Red — heat — pain!_

 

“Not mine,” Killeen managed to say, heart pounding far more than exertion could explain.

 

“What do we do?”

 

“Stay well out of its way,” Killeen said. She held out her hand. “Come on. We still need to make another fire, dragon or no.”

 

“Won’t that let it know where we are?” Fel asked, taking her hand.

 

“It didn’t last night, did it?” She made herself smile. “Anyway, it can’t get in among these big trees.” _Unless it burns them down._ “We just need to be clever and stay out of its way.”

 

Later, as Fel slept with her head in Killeen’s lap, Killeen carefully fed the fire and thought.

 

The dragon was a problem, no doubt about it. If they’d washed up somewhere along the coast of Ferelden or Orlais, they might have been able to wait until it slept and work their way past it … _but we’re not on the coast. We’re on an island_.

 

The only way they were going to get _off_ the island was to either attract a passing ship — and she’d been watching the horizon all day as they walked without seeing a single sail — or somehow building a raft strong to carry them across the water to the smudge of land she’d seen on the horizon, which might be a larger island where people lived, or even the mainland.

 

But a signal fire would need to be built out in the open, and watched and tended … and any raft drifting helpless on the waves would be a deathtrap if the dragon happened to see it.

 

If it had been summer, she would have considered simply waiting — living off the land, seeing if the dragon would decide to move its lair.

 

But it was not summer. It was well and truly the beginning of winter. The first snow would be falling in Skyhold, and before long it would be falling here, as well. There was no way the two of them could build a shelter sufficient to withstand the deep cold, and lay in enough food to survive the lean months of Wintermarch and Guardian.

 

She toyed with the idea for a while, thinking about how she might weave saplings into the slanted trees and plaster them with mud, make a smokehouse in the hollow of the fallen tree, work out how to tan the hides of the hapless friendly nugs and make them both warm winter clothes …

 

Fel rolled over, and looked up at her. “Kill?”

 

“Yes, honey?”

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

Killeen took a deep breath. “Well, Fel,” she said. “I think we’re going to have to kill a dragon.”

 


	72. At The Dragon's Lair - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen makes a plan

_3rd Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

It was not, of course, so easy as all that.

 

For weapons, Killeen had her dagger. It was a good dagger, Master Harritt’s finest work, but it was still just a dagger. For armour, she had her torn shirt and breeches, and whatever she could cobble out of untanned nug-skins.

 

_Not really enough._

 

“You know you told me about knowing about plants?” she asked Fel over their breakfast of nug — the appeal of which was rapidly waning. “Do you know which ones are poison, as well as which ones are safe?”

 

Fel nodded, mouth full. “Deathroot and blood lotus and —”

 

“Ones that might grow here?” Killeen asked.

 

“I could look,” Fel said.

 

“Do you think any of them might poison a dragon?”

 

Fel wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. Stuff is different for animals and people.”

 

"Well,” Killeen said. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

 

The next morning, with a final injunction to Fel to be careful, to use the edge of her shirt to handle anything toxic rather than her bare hands – given their only method of cleaning was to rinse in the stream – Killeen set out to scout for the dragon’s lair.

 

It did not take her all that long: the island was not very big.

 

She heard the dragon before she saw it, the crunch of its claws on rock, the scrape of its scales. _Run, run, run now!_ every instinct screamed at her.

 

_Plummeting toward her, larger and larger, trailing fire, hot blood splattering on her face like rain._

_She flings her arms over her face and —_

_Red. Heat. Pain._

 

She found herself curled on the ground, arms wrapped protectively around her stomach, shaking as if with an ague. Her nerves fired and blazed with remembered pain, her heart hammered with the knowledge that she was about to die, was dying, was burning alive to death –

 

_Get up,_ she told herself. _Get up._

 

_Cullen went through this for ten years and he still did his job every day._

_Except he didn’t,_ a little, treacherous voice said inside her. _He said the lyrium helped. It wasn’t this bad for him. It’s never been this bad for anyone, ever. No-one could expect you to do this. Everyone will understand that you can’t._

 

Killeen gritted her teeth and silenced the thought. _It doesn’t matter what people understand or expect. Fel will still be on this blighted island with that Maker-blasted dragon and feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to change anything._

She seized hold of the pain and the fear and held it tight, dragged it to the box in her head and stuffed it in. It took what felt like hours, wrestling the panic down, as if it was alive and fighting her, coiling around her hands and arms as she forced it down, and down, and down again …

 

Finally her pulse began to slow.

 

Rolling to her belly, she worked her way forward slowly and carefully, timing her movements to the gusts of breeze so not even a single leaf quivering out of place would betray her presence.

 

_Definitely house-sized_. The dragon was green, banded and marked with darker grey-green on wings and back. Killeen didn’t know if that meant anything – perhaps all dragons were naturally green. Perhaps all dragons were naturally different colours.

 

As Killeen watched, it rose on its hind legs, wings flapping until the wind of them blew the gravel and dust of the hollow around in a storm, and then leapt into the air. It circled once or twice, and then settled back. Killeen wondered if it sensed her, sweat trickling down her sides and back despite the chill, but then as it turned from side to side again, head low, searching, she noticed how hollow its sides were.

 

That could, of course, be normal for dragons: she didn’t have much experience with them. But in those species of animals she _did_ have experience with, the dragon’s appearance was one of privation, if not starvation; its behaviour a quest for food, not the pursuit of something it knew was there.

 

_Are nugs smart enough to stay away from dragons, if not from humans?_ Killeen doubted it, and she could see the remnants of bones scattered around the clearing to show it.

 

But they were creatures of habit and territory, like most animals. The ones she had caught near their camp were from probably generations of nugs who had lived in that patch of the forest, drank from that particular stream. They had no reason to range further, unless population pressure forced them.

 

_And it would take a lot of nugs to fill up a dragon._ Probably, over a reasonably short period of time, all the nugs on the island who had lived in places the dragon could get to, leaving only the ones like their own larder who lived safely below the canopy of the trees.

 

As she wriggled carefully backwards, Killeen wondered if they could simply wait for the dragon to starve. Now she knew it was hungry, the calculations had to change a little. How long before it grew hungry enough to change its lair? Certainly, likely to be faster than simply waiting for it to grow bored. And it would take time for them to build a raft to float off the island … time to gather enough dry wood for a good size signal fire …

 

It might just be that by the time they were ready to need the dragon gone, it would be.

 

And, if not, _then_ she could put her plan in place.

 

And, Maker’s balls, she’d rather leave it as long as she could before trying. Even watching it gave her the cold sweats. The thought of _facing_ it, let alone facing it alone … _let alone facing it alone with my dagger in my shirt and breeches._

And she hadn’t even fully explored the interior of the island. There might well be better shelter, a cave even, somewhere she and Fel _could_ survive the colder weather, could ensure until the dragon finally gave up and left –

 

_Or a passing sailor sees the dragon circling, reports it to the Inquisition, and Her Worship comes to add another dragon skull to her wall._

 

Making her way back through the forest to their camp, Killeen allowed herself to imagine it, a cozy cave, deep and sheltered enough for them to stack wood to dry, cobbling warmer clothes from nug-skins, beds of dry grass and dinner of nug-stew and roots …

 

Except she had no axe, to cut the wood; no awl to sew leather; no bowl or pot to make stew …

 

And no guarantee the dragon wouldn’t discover their presence on its island. She had told Fel that their fire wouldn’t betray their presence to it, but in fact she was certain of no such thing … _but we have to have a fire, there’s no way around it, or we’ll die of cold and never mind the dragon._

 

Killeen stopped and leaned against a mossy trunk, then turned to face it, resting her forehead on the rough bark. _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t …_

She would panic, would freeze, would be helpless before it and the fire would sweep over her and –

 

Wrapping her arms around the twisted trunk, she clung to the tree. If only Cullen were here, if only she could hold him like this, be held … she could face even a dragon with Cullen.

 

Deliberately, she built from memory and imagination the idea that it _was_ Cullen her arms were around, that his arms were around _her_ , warm and strong, that the chill wind that ruffled her hair was his hand, teasing out a stray tangle … built it until it was stronger than _red_ and _heat_ and _pain, so much pain …._ Until she could let got of the tree without fearing her legs would fail her, could turn and walk back to their camp.

 

Fel had gathered quite a pile of herbs, roots, and mushrooms, stacked one of the skins of the nugs that Killeen had killed the day before. “Don’t touch them!” she said as soon as Killeen pushed her way through the bushes. “Some of them are _really_ bad!”

 

“Good work, honey,” Killeen said.

 

“Did you find the dragon?”

 

_Heat — pain —_

 

“Yes,” Killeen said, forcing her voice steady. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, caught Fel watching and managed a smile. “I hurried all the way back to tell you. I found it.”

 

“What are we going to do?” Fel asked.

 

“Well, tonight we’re going to have a good meal and sleep,” Killeen said. “And tomorrow, I’m going to kill another nug, and instead of eating it, I’m going to stuff it full of those bad things you found. Like stuffing a chicken for the table, except not one you’d want to eat. And then I’m going to take it to where the dragon is, and toss it under its nose.”

 

“What if the dragon can tell it’s no good?”

 

“Then I’ll think of something else,” Killeen said more sharply than she’d intended, tried to soften it with another smile. “But I don’t think it will stop to think about it, sweetling. It looked like it was very hungry. I think it’s eaten everything it can get to on the island, and it’ll gobble up our poison nug.”

 

“And if the poison doesn’t work?”

 

“ _Fel_ ,” Killeen snapped, stopped herself. She sat down next to the girl, and put an arm around her shoulder. “Sorry. I don’t exactly know what we’ll do. But we’ll think of something, right? Between the two of us, that dragon doesn’t stand a chance. And meanwhile, while we think, we’ve got food, we’ve got water, we’ve got a fire, and the dragon can’t get in here with all the trees. Right?”

 

Fel nodded. “Right,” she said, and then. “Kill? We could wait for Ser Bear.”

 

“Oh, honey, I wish we could,” Killeen said. “But you know, we were really lucky to make it here at all. He won’t think we could have. I don’t think we can wait for someone to come.”

 

Fel looked up at her. “He thinks we’re dead?”

 

“Probably,” Killeen said.

 

A long silence. “He’ll be sad,” Fel said at last.

 

Killeen felt her eyes burn, a lump in her throat making it hard to swallow, at the thought of how it must have been for those on deck, for _Cullen_ , as she and Fel dropped away into the water and were lost in the storm. She had to breathe carefully for a moment before she could speak. “He will be,” she said. “But he’ll be happy to see us again, right? So we’ll just have to get back to him, right?”

 

Fel nodded against her shoulder. “So we have to kill the dragon.”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said.

 

“When?”

 

_Falling faster now, closer and closer, blood and fire fountaining from its mouth —_

 

Killeen closed her eyes, clenched her jaw, thought about a box that had room for all of it, for everything, a box that could contain the pounding of her heart and the pounding in her head.

 

“Tomorrow,” she said, cleared her throat as her voice came out like a rusty hinge. “Tomorrow, honey. We’ll kill the dragon tomorrow.”


	73. On The Page - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia writes a letter.

_9th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

_Dear Brother,_

_I have no idea where to send this to reach you and, most likely, will see you in person before I find out, which will make this letter entirely redundant, but I must unburden myself of my news and my feelings, and so I shall pretend there is some use to this letter._

_Jean has gone. Do not fear, she did not take Thomas, and he is currently on my lap attempting to seize the end of my quill as I write. Were he only a little larger, he would achieve his aim._

_As to his mother — for the past days since you left she has been visiting the Chantry and spending many hours there, which I admit did surprise me. This morning, she went out as usual, but she did not return for the midday meal. I was growing concerned, and suggested to Krem he search for her — his knee is improving daily, by the way — and indeed, thought to do so myself. I picked Thomas up from his cradle to wrap him warmly for the street, and beneath him found a small purse and a piece of parchment._

_Brother, the purse held coin, more than I surely would have believed Jean to have, and the letter was her farewell — and her request that I care for Thomas, using the money to pay for his needs — and, brother, I had raised the possibility with her in passing, as you desired me to, and mentioned the difficulty that could arise for a foster mother without legal standing — not that anyone has ever heard of such difficulty for what Arl cares which children are raised where — but to put the idea in her head, you understand, that without some formal agreement trouble might arise — I see I am not making any sense and perhaps I should simply start again —_

_Brother, she gives him to me, in writing, in her own hand, signed. Krem’s signature below, witnessing hers. There being no Arl here, we went directly to the Queen’s Administrator and — he being as indifferent to matters among the low born as you might imagine — it was stamped and formalised and recorded with little trouble and only a small bribe._

_When you find Killeen, you may tell her that her nephew is safely, and legally, in my care, and Ferelden law will not permit him to be taken from me._

_Of course, I may make such disposition for his care as I choose, as his own mother could — had she still the right — but discussion of such things can wait until you return._

_I hope you are well and safe, dear brother, and I pray daily that you have found Killeen and Felandaris and they are also well and safe, and that your companion is also well and safe — and sober._

_I kiss Thomas’s little cheek three times when I pick him up, once for myself, once for you, and once for his aunt._

_Your loving sister, Mia._

Mia set down the quill, feeling a little breathless, as if she’d spilled all the words aloud and not through ink. The afternoon had been one of frantic urgency as they hurried from office to office, Mia seized with the fear that Jean would change her mind and re-appear before everything was legally recorded, written down in the city administrator’s big leather-bound ledger as fact that could not be erased. She had been convinced, as they finally stood before the Queen’s representative, that in some way the fact that Krem’s signature had been added to the bottom of Jean’s letter well after Jean had left was immediately visible, had been all but ready to burst out with an explanation when the man had looked across his desk at them and asked Krem _You watched her sign, then?_

_Yes, ser,_ Krem had answered, sounding slightly bored with the formality, as Mia clutched Thomas hard enough to make him squawk.

 

_Very well_. A note in the ledger, a seal on the letter they’d presented, and they had been turning and walking out, and the call to _Stop them_ that Mia expected never came …

 

_I am not cut out for law-breaking_ , she thought, looking down at the top of Thomas’s head. He reached for the quill again and she distracted him with her bracelet. _Still, all’s well that ends —_

The front door banged and footsteps pounded on the stairs.

 

Krem reached for his sword. Mia seized her letter, crumpled it, and flung it in the fire. It flared into ash as the door to the common room flew open and the room was suddenly full of armed, uniformed men.

 

_They know_ , she thought as Krem moved to stand in front of her, sword still sheathed but his hand on the hilt ready to draw it. _What is the penalty for lying on a legal document, anyway? Prison? A fine? Hanging?_

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, as haughtily as she could.

 

One of the men, the one with an extra stripe on the sleeve of his leather armour, looked Krem up and down. “Not him,” he said shortly. “Search the place.”

 

The men pushed past Mia and Krem, flinging open the doors that led to the bedrooms and the kitchen. Krem kept between them and Mia, and his gaze was very steady, but he didn’t draw his sword.

 

_And what can he do against all of them?_ Mia thought.

 

A moment later, and then men were back. “Not here, ser,” one of them said. “No sign of him.”

 

“Where is he?” the one with the extra stripe, the one the others called _ser_ , asked Mia.

 

“Where is who?” she said. “As you see, there’s no-one else here.”

 

“Alistair the Bastard,” the man said. “We know you’ve been harbouring him. We know he was here. Where is he now?”

 

“I truly don’t know,” Mia said. Thomas fussed a little with all the commotion and she soothed him, thinking of all that coin Jean had left, thinking of how much the woman would have had over for herself out of the reward offered on the poster.

 

“Do you know the penalty for sheltering a wanted criminal from the law?” the man said sharply.

 

“There was a man called Alistair here, yes,” Krem said. He shot Mia a warning glance, and she pressed her lips together on the objection she wanted to make. _They know he was here_ , she thought. _We can’t persuade them otherwise._ “We didn’t know he was a wanted man. He left four or five days ago — said he was going to take ship.”

 

“Where to?” the man demanded.

 

“He didn’t give an exact destination,” Krem said. “But I had the feeling it wasn’t local. And he took all his gear, so I don’t think he’s planning to come back.”

 

“We’ll see,” the man said. “Johnson, Milton, watch the place. Hawkins, get down to the Harbour Master and get me a list of all ships that put out in the past week and their destinations. And you —” He looked at Krem and Mia. “You two can come with us. Let’s see if we can job your memory for any little details you’ve forgotten.”

 

“Wait!” Mia said as one of the soldiers took her elbow. “The baby — I need the baby’s things.” And when they continued to urge her toward the door, “Clouts. He’s been teething, you would not believe the smell —”

 

“All right,” the man in charge said. “Get them. Hurry.”

 

“Thank you,” Mia said, dipped a little curtsy, and hurried to her room. One of the soldiers followed her and stood in the doorway, watching what she did. Mind racing, Mia laid Thomas on the bed and opened her chest, pulling out his spare clouts, using one to bundle the others. “And something warm to wrap him in? Please?” she asked the soldier at the door, and he hesitated, and then nodded.

 

She knelt down to reach further into the chest, her body between it and the door. The blanket she was looking for was right on top, but she ignored it, pretended to be riffling through the chest’s contents — found, tucked against the side, her chess set.

 

Quickly, she slipped the latch, opened it, felt through the pieces until she found the one she wanted, then seized the blanket, using it to conceal the chess-piece in her hand.

 

“Ready,” she said, standing, gathering up Thomas and tucking the blanket around him.

 

The soldier turned to lead the way back to common room. Mia picked up the bundle of clouts from the bed and dropped the chess-piece as she did so.

 

“It’s all right, Thomas,” she said to him as if he could understand. “Everything will be all right.”

 

_If Cullen comes back._

Still soothing the child, she followed the soldier down the corridor to find out where they would be taken, leaving the bedroom empty except for the white queen lying on the coverlet.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	74. Beneath the Dragon's Gaze - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen carries out a plan

 

 

_4th - 5th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

The next day, however, Killeen revised her timetable.

 

The morning was cold, and although the canopy of the trees provided shelter, there was the nip of frost in the air. Killeen built the fire higher and moved Fel a little closer to it, careful not to wake her.

 

_If something does go wrong …_

 

Resourceful and tough as Fel was, for a child …

 

_She’s a child_.

 

If they both stood little chance of surviving the colder weather, Fel alone stood even less.

 

Killeen made her way down to the stream and murdered their breakfast.

 

When she returned to their camp with the butchered carcass, Fel was sitting up. “Are we going to kill the dragon today?”

 

“Not today,” Killeen said. “Today I think we should make ourselves a little more comfortable. What was it you were saying about brains and tanning?”

 

After they broke their fast, Killeen helped Fel dig a hollow in the mud near the stream. They lined it with the largest leaves they could find, and scooped water from the stream with their hands until it was partly full. Killeen found a large enough rock to shatter the skulls of the nugs she’d killed, and Fel scraped the brains into the hollow they’d dug, mixing them with the water.

 

Then Fel set about rubbing the mixture into the dried hides, and Killeen contemplated their shelter.

 

The trees forced together by the fallen trunk had interwoven their branches, partly breaking the wind. Killeen began to cut down saplings and seedlings around the camp, weaving them between the trees that formed their shelter to make a stronger barrier. Once she’d built it as high as she could reach, she went back to the stream. Stripping off her shirt, she filled it with mud, lugged it back to the camp and plastered over the woven walls.

 

It took trip after trip, and she was shivering with cold and effort when she was done, her damp, filthy shirt providing even less protection against the chill than it had before, but their shelter was now a half-circle of almost solid walls.

 

After a break for still more nug, which her stomach was still not becoming accustomed to, Killeen hacked out part of the fallen log which had created their clearing. She cut a supply of green twigs with her knife, slaughtered another nug, and showed Fel how to hang a carcass inside the hollow log and burn green wood beneath it, sealing the whole with a handful of mud.

 

“Are we staying, then?” Fel asked. “Is this for winter?”

 

“No, honey,” Killeen said. “But if we need to build a raft it might take us a while to get somewhere else. We’ll need smoked meat while we travel, right?”

 

It was the first time Killeen had told an outright, deliberate lie to Fel, and it made her stomach flutter even more than the diet of nug. _It’s not for the raft, honey_ , would have been the truth _._

_It’s so you have a chance if the dragon kills me._

 

All afternoon they dragged fallen branches back to the camp, piling them under the dubious shelter of the thickest part of the canopy. Killeen put Master Harritt’s knife once more to a use that it would have made him weep to see, cutting the fallen branches into burnable lengths.

 

It was a long, hard day, but when it was done there were several day’s fuel stacked for drying and several day’s food smoking in the hollow log — and Killeen was confident that Fel understood how to repeat everything she’d done.

 

After another cold night of sleep broken by the need to keep the fire burning, Killeen made her way down to the stream and waited until a couple of nugs came snuffling up.

 

She was beginning to feel bad about killing them, given their complete lack of self-preservation and total refusal to recognise her as a threat.

 

Until she thought about the fact that it was either them or Fel. Then, she didn’t feel bad at all.

 

One of the nugs, she butchered, roasted the meat on a green twig for their breakfast. The past days she’d given Fel the lion’s share of the meat, but today she ate until she was no longer hungry.

 

_I’ll need the strength._

 

Unaccustomed to the sensation of being full, her stomach shifted uncomfortably as she slit the second nug down the belly and yanked out just enough of the sweatbreads to make room for Fel’s collection of toxins. Careful not to touch them with her bare skin, she pushed the plants, roots, and mushrooms into the cavity, and then used the nug’s own innards to bind it up again. When she was done, it still looked nothing like a living nug, but at least the poisonous plants were securely inside.

 

She slashed the discarded sweetbreads into pieces and rubbed them over the carcass to disguise any smell, and then cleaned her knife on her breeches and sheathed it.

 

“All right,” she said. “You stay here, Fel. Keep the fire burning. I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

Fel nodded silently, and then threw her arms around Killeen’s waist and held tight.

 

Killeen closed her arms around the girl, ran her hand over her hair. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

 

“Be —”

 

_Don’t say it,_ Killeen prayed. _Please, honey, don’t say it. Don’t curse me. Don’t kill me._

_Don’t say it._

“—careful,” Fel said.

 

Killeen closed her eyes, her doom sealed. “I will, honey. I promise.”

 

Giving Fel one last, fierce hug, she checked her knife as carefully as she would have checked her sword had it not been uselessly aboard the galleon with Cullen along with her armour, shouldered her nug, and began to make her way toward the dragon’s lair.

 

As she walked, she allowed herself again to imagine Cullen was there with her, walking to her right, just out of sight. What advice would he have for her, if he were? He might not have faced a dragon himself, but the Inquisitor had – surely they had discussed it? What would he tell her do to, if he were here?

 

_Turn around, Kill, go back to the campsite_ , is what he’d say .

 

_I can’t,_ she argued. _You know I can’t. We have to get off this island before the weather gets colder. We’ve no real shelter, no way of building one. You and I might have drawn our rations from the stores as easily in winter as in summer but you know how hard farmers and crofters and shepherds and hunters work from first thaw to first frost just to lay by enough food and fuel for the cold months. Even if I had tools – and knew what I was doing – I’d never have time, this end of the year, to get us ready._

Cullen had to concede the truth of that. _You can’t fight a dragon in your breeches with a boot-knife, though._

_I’m not planning to fight it,_ Killeen pointed out. _I’m planning to poison it._

_And if the poison doesn’t work?_

_Then I’ll have to think of something else. Any ideas?_

Of course, he didn’t have any. If he’d been really there, he might have.

 

Of course, if he’d been really there, he probably wouldn’t have conceded the necessity of what she was doing quite so quickly. They’d have another go-round of how he didn’t want her to take any risks and he’d probably pull rank to order her stay behind while he tried to poison the dragon himself. Which, of course, she’d have to object to, because one of the things that rank did was tell you how expendable people were in inverse order to seniority, which is why the Commander of the Inquisition didn’t go out on scouting missions or risky courier rides.

 

All in all, it was probably a good thing he wasn’t here.

 

Telling herself that, Killeen made her way onward to the place she’d seen the dragon, and crawled slowly through the undergrowth, dragging the nug behind her.

 

At the edge of the clearing, she peered out from the screening leaves. She needed to get the nug to where the dragon would notice it, without being noticed herself.

_Just how smart_ are _dragons?_ she wondered. _A dog, now, understands that a thrown object comes from somewhere … will a dragon?_

_Only one way to find out_.

 

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pressed her face into the dirt. One last time, she let herself imagine Cullen there by her side, ready to guard her back and watch her blind-spot, the stray glow of thin autumn sunlight making its way through the leaves touching his hair with a glint of gold, a small upright line between his brows as he frowned in concentration …

 

_Oh, my darling man, I love you, I love you so …_

_I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t faster. I should have pulled harder on the rope. I should have kept it clear of the side of the ship._

_I’m so sorry._

 

She put it all away. Fear, hope, love, despair, guilt, grief, until there was nothing but cool, clear purpose, nothing but the dragon in front of her and the tactical problem of how to kill it.

 

Raising her head, she watched the dragon pace the hollow. Toward her, around, away. Toward her, around, and away.

 

Toward her, around —

 

Killeen rose to her feet and hurled the nug carcass into the centre of the hollow and then dropped flat again.

 

The dragon made two more circuits before it discovered the fresh meat — and then, despite Killeen’s fears it would detect the herbs and roots packed within, devoured the nug carcass in one gulp.

 

She lay motionless, nose to the dirt, watching the dragon in its restless circling. Toward her, around, and away. Toward her, around, and away. Toward her, around, and away.

 

Toward her, around, and — staggering — away.

 

_Fel, you brilliant, wonderful child_.

 

The dragon made another circuit, weaving, and stopped, head weaving back and forth. Suddenly it bellowed, rose up on its hind legs and belched a blast of lightning that grounded harmlessly on the rocks of the hollow — and then crashed down and lay, writhing.

 

Killeen lay motionless until the dragon stopped moving, and then she raised her head and wriggled a little closer. The creature’s sides were still rising and falling — it was unconscious, but not yet dead. She waited for the movement to cease.

 

And waited.

 

And saw the beast’s nostril’s flare, a shiver run over its skin.

 

_Not dying._

The herbs and roots Fel had gathered had been enough to incapacitate the dragon —

 

But not to kill it.

 

_Well, shit._

 

Killeen closed her eyes, pressed her face to the dirt, tried to persuade herself that the dragon was dying. That she only had to wait.

 

 

Carefully, she got to her feet and drew her knife from her boot. The dragon lay insensible, twitching and panting in reptilian dreams. It did not move as she took a step toward it, another — seemed completely unaware of her presence as she edged her way down into to the hollow.

 

_Flames spilling out over her, blazing, burning, giant head writhing as it_ —

 

Killeen froze, panting. _No_. **_No._**

 

That had happened; it was not happening now. _Now_ she stood in a hollow on an island with her dagger in her hand —

 

And Fel somewhere behind her.

 

She had to switch her dagger to her left hand and wipe the palm of her right on her breeches before she could get a secure grip in its hilt, but she managed it without dropping the blade, and took another step toward the enormous scaly shape, and another. And another.

 

Finally she was standing less than an arm’s length from it. At this distance, she could see the way the scales lay overlapping each other, like the best mail. _A blade will never pierce that, even Master Harritt’s work. There’s a reason the best armour is made from dragon bone and dragon scale._

Perhaps the point of a blade could be worked between the scales and driven home — but the creature was so enormous, any vital organs would be far inside its skin. A sword might reach them —

 

_Not a dagger_.

 

She could do as much damage to the dragon as an unarmed man could do against a soldier —

 

_They are not Carta, no — just some jumped up mercenary band trying to become a force in post-Anders Kirkwall — but that is not going to matter to any of them in a few minutes because they are well and truly outnumbered and she can see Cullen down, his sword sliding across the floor out of his reach —_

_Killeen makes a desperate effort to reach him, her sword leaping and dancing, matching and beating back the three men facing her — she can hold them off, but not drive them back, and she is tiring, tiring —_

_Cullen rises behind them like a demon of wrath and seizes the nearest, hands wrapped around his head._

_One hard jerk and the man goes limp._

_Two against one are odds Killeen can handle. She feints, slashes, guts one and spits the other._

_They look at each other across the four dead men, panting._

_“I though he had you,” Killeen says at last._

_Cullen glances back at the huddled corpse behind him, eyes empty sockets, and then down at his gauntlets, thumbs red with blood and vicious with fluid that isn’t blood._

_“No,” he says at last. “Not quite.”_

Killeen looked up at the wall of scaly dragon side in front of her, then left along the long, sinuous neck, to the hinge of jaw the height of a man, to the curve of a mouth that could swallow a horse —

 

To the closed eye.

 

Three careful steps brought her level with it.

 

She flexed her hand on the dagger grip, wrapping her fingers securely around it —

 

Leapt upwards and struck.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	75. In The Stream - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, consequences.

_5th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

There was more resistance to the dragon’s eyelid than Killeen had expected. Instead of striking straight through the eye and into the brain beneath with one blow, Killeen barely managed to get the blade through the scaly skin, a mere hand’s breadth into the eye itself.

 

Not enough to kill the dragon, but more than enough to wake it. Before she could get a hand-hold on the dragon’s head and drive the dagger deeper, the beast reared up, roaring. For a second she clung on, and then the creature gave a mighty shake of its head and she tumbled backwards, still clutching the dagger.

 

She managed to roll as she landed, came up running for the cover of the trees. _Not that trees are going to be much use if blasts me with a fireball_ , she thought, and then behind her the dragon screamed again and made an odd hiccoughing sound —

 

Killeen jinked right, boots slipping in the gravel, and then something hit her left arm so hard it spun her around and then flung her on her back. Utterly winded, she gaped and gasped and stared up at the rearing creature above her —

 

Sucked a breath that hurt all the way down to her stomach and rolled, rolled, _rolled_ as the dragon turned and stomped and tried to reach her with one giant clawed foot.

 

It missed, once, twice, and Killeen realised it couldn’t judge where she was precisely with only one working eye.

 

Scrambling to her feet, she dodged that mighty foot again and hurled herself past the dragon’s blind side and into the shelter of the forest.

 

The coughing noise again, and Killeen tried to get further into the trees before the dragon’s fire incinerated them, and her —

 

But it was not fire — instead, lightning blasted out from the creature’s mouth, struck the trees, and did the wood no harm.

 

Killeen kept staggering onward, putting as much distance between herself and the dragon as she could, until she fetched up against a tree trunk with a jolt that sent a nauseating wave of pain through her left arm.

 

Panting, she leaned against the tree and took stock. She still had the dagger, clutched in her right hand, dagger and hand and arm coated with the dragon’s gelatinous blood to the elbow. She was on her feet, and neither of her legs seemed to be injured.

 

Her left arm …

 

Killeen closed her eyes and decided not to think about her left arm, or look at it again.

 

 _Get back to Fel_ , she thought through the fog that was starting to descend over her. _Get back to Fel._

_Get back to Fel._

 

Staggering, then reeling, from tree to supporting tree, she made it as far as the stream near their campsite, and fell to her knees. It was growing increasingly dark, and Killeen realised she must have spent far longer at the dragon’s lair than she had thought. In fact, she could hardly see the stream.

 

Water would help her arm, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t make her fingers release their grasp on her dagger to scoop it up.

 

In the end she simply lay down and let her left arm lie in the icy cold water. At first it hurt even more, but after a few moments the cold brought blessed numbness. Killeen closed her eyes as the numbness crept up from her hand to her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder …

 

“Kill!” It was Fel’s voice, Fel’s hands on her back. “Kill, Kill, Kill!”

 

“Here,” Killeen managed to say. Her lips and tongue were numb and thick and everything seemed very far away. It would be easy to simply close her eyes and slip into sleep for a while, just a little while, just for a moment …

 

“Kill, wake up, wake up!” Fel cried.

 

 _Wake up_. Killeen opened her eyes again. _Wake up_.

 

She forced herself to turn her head and look at her left arm. It was as bad as she’d thought, what was left of the skin blistered and peeling, exposed flesh seared and blackened.

 

In one or two places, she could see the bone.

 

 _Not survivable,_ she thought calmly, from a great distance. Amputation, perhaps, would spare her life … but there was no surgeon. _Can I do it myself?_

 

She would have to tear what was left of her shirt into strips for a tourniquet. _Fel can help with that._ But the wounds went up past the elbow, which meant sawing through the bone of her upper arm … _even if my dagger will do it, I’ll pass out before it’s done._

And the shock would kill her.

 

Shock was killing her now, she realised, as night swallowed more and more of the forest around her.

 

“Kill!” Fel said. “Kill, please!”

 

“All right,” she said slowly. “It’s all right. Fel?”

 

“Yes! I’m here! I’m here!”

 

“Listen to me now,” Killeen said. “My dagger, it’s a good dagger, it will keep its edge, but you have to clean it after you use it. Understand?”

 

Fel nodded.

 

“Nugs are easy to catch. They don’t learn. Just lie still until they almost step on you and grab them. Stab underneath the chin up into the brain is easiest.” Her eyes were closed, Killeen realised. She managed to open them. “Never let the fire go out. Make sure you keep wood in shelter drying off for the fire.”

 

“I will,” Fel promised. “I will! Please, Kill!”

 

 _I need to get out of this stream_ , Killeen realised. _Fel will never have the strength to move me, and a rotting corpse will spoil the water for her._ She heaved herself over, bit back a scream as the movement woke the pain again.

 

“Lie still,” Fel begged her. “Lie still, Kill, please!”

 

Killeen rolled again. “Can’t, honey,” she gasped. “I have to get away from the water.” She rolled, had to stop for breath. “If anything dies in the stream, get it out,” she said. “And only take water from above where it went in.” She panted, rolled once more, and knew she could go no further. “If you stay under the trees, the dragon can’t hurt you. It’s not fire, understand? Lightning. It won’t burn the trees. Stay under the trees.”

 

There were so many other things she needed to tell the girl … but the dark around her was very close, now, and there was time for only one thing more.

 

“Fel,” she whispered into the falling night. “Fel. I love you. Cullen loves you.”

 

“I know,” Fel sobbed. “I know! I love you too, Kill. Kill! _Kill_!”

 

The darkness swallowed Fel.

 

Swallowed everything.

 

 


	76. In The Well - Fel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fel tries to be brave.

 

_5th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

“Kill!” Fel said, shouted. “Kill! _Kill!”_

Kill didn’t move or answer, even when Fel shook her, hard.

 

Kill was hurt, really bad, as bad as Ser Calenhad when Fel had got him out of Hudson’s dog’s mouth. Her left arm was mostly just meat, burned and bleeding like a ram haunch turning on the spit over too hot a fire, white bone showing through here and there. Her face was a bad colour and her breathing was all wrong.

 

_Ser Bear’s arm warm and strong around her shoulders, the fur of his cloak soft under her cheek. “When I lived in Kirkwall, I knew a woman there, a lot like Kill actually. Her name is Aveline. She’s a very brave, very good woman. When she was younger, her husband was very badly hurt, in a way he couldn’t get better from. The right thing for her to do was to be merciful, to take his life rather than let him suffer. It wasn’t easy for her, but she did it. It was a kindness to him. She loved him very much. It was the right thing, the responsible thing to do.”_

 

Fel looked at the dagger, lying beside Kill’s limp hand. _Am I supposed to be responsible, Ser Bear? Is that the right thing to do?_

She couldn’t. She just couldn’t, that was all, and if that made her a bad person, she was a bad person.

 

So she had to do something else.

 

_Elfroot and spindleweed_ … but the elfroot was in the forest, with the bears and the wolves, and the spindleweed was down on the shore.

 

_Where the dragon is_.

 

She had to get it, that was all, she just had to.

 

She had to be brave, like Kill.

 

And Kill had told her how to be brave.

 

_It’s just practice. I think about a box. Inside my head. A strong chest, with banding and a lock. I put my fear, everything that isn’t useful, inside that box, and lock it, until the danger is past. I think everybody has one._

 

Fel squinched her eyes shut tight and thought about a box. _Strong, like the chest that they kept the soldier’s pay in, more metal than wood, with big hinges and a lock …_ She could almost see it, dim and wavery as if through a fog. She put her hands over her ears to block out the rasp and rattle of Kill’s breath and screwed up her face as hard as she could, pushing through the fog, closer to the box … except it didn’t look so much like a box now, although it had a strong lid and a heavy hasp, it looked like a well, like the old well in the basement under the basement in Skyhold that she and Kill had found one time, mossy stone edges and a heavy, heavy lid so no kid could accidentally fall down it …

 

_Well, it has a lid, even if it isn’t a box_. She’d open the well and put _dragon_ and _bears_ and _wolves_ inside and shut it hard and then she could be brave and help Kill.

 

As she got closer to the well she realised it had started to flood, the way wells sometimes did after really heavy rain if they were sunk in the wrong place. Water, cool and green, was seeping out from under the lid and pooling around her ankles as she got closer. Without even tasting it, Fel knew the water would be sweet and fresh to taste. _A drink of water would help Kill_ , she thought, especially _this_ water, and so she heaved at the lid of the well, meaning to scoop some up in her hands.

 

The lid didn’t move. It didn’t even budge. Fel searched around the edge for a lock or latch but there was nothing — it was just that the lid was too heavy, the hinges too rusty.

 

She set her teeth.

 

Kill _needed_ that water.

 

Bracing her hands under the lid, she tried again, then crouched down and got her shoulder under the edge of the lid. _Lift with your legs_ , Kill always said _,_ and so Fel tried, tried until her feet sank a little in the soft damp earth around the well, tried until her muscles burned and the lid bit painfully into the bony part of her shoulder, tried until sweat stung her eyes and her nose began to run, tried until she was shaking all over.

 

_You **will** open! _ she told the lid fiercely. _Kill needs you to open. So **open**!_

And all of a sudden it did, so quickly she went sprawling, and the water in the well flooded over the stone coping and all around her, over her head, and it was clear as air and sweet, and she was drowning in it except she could still breathe, was breathing it in and drinking it down until it filled her and there was no difference anymore between Fel and the water —

 

Her eyes flew open.

 

Kill was still lying half-in, half-out of the stream, still breathing in that wrong, laboured way, but now Fel could see that it was because the humours of her body were out of balance, that when the dragon’s fire had burned her skin and muscle Kill’s body had tried to fix itself and couldn’t and now the attempt was poisoning Kill, could see the places where the broken network of rivers that carried blood around Kill’s body were backing up and making things worse …

 

Could see _Kill_ herself, inside the hurt body, like a candle-flame trembling in a wind that blew with the rhythm of a heartbeat, now one, now doubling and flickering with a gust of wind, a flame that fought and struggled and utterly _refused_ to go out …

 

So full of well-water that her hair felt as if it was standing on end and her teeth felt loose, Fel reached out without moving and cupped her hands around that flame, sheltering it from the wind that threatened it. _Burn_ , she told it, _burn bright, burn strong._

It flared up fast and strong between her fingers and Kill opened her eyes. “Fel?” she whispered.

 

Fel couldn’t answer other than to nod. She was so full of _something_ , demanding a way out, that she was frightened of what would happen if she opened her mouth.

 

_No_ , she thought _, not of what will happen. Of **wasting** what will happen. _

And then she knew what to do. She put her hands on Kill’s poor hurt arm and waited.

 

Nothing happened. The water from the well flooded higher and higher inside her, until what was Fel was in danger of dissolving into it like honey in hot tea, pushed down her arms into her hands until her palms stung and tingled — and stopped.

 

Fel closed her eyes. Just as she had each time she’d changed Ser Calenhad’s poultices, she thought hard about the torn flesh, the poison in the blood, the humours out of balance.

 

“ _Get better_!” she said, as she’d said to Ser Calenhad all those times —

 

When she’d said to to Ser Calenhad she’d felt her palms tingle a little, but now they _burned._ The water poured through her like a river at spring flood. The well was a fountain now, a geyser, unstoppable, roaring down her arms and into her hands and into Killeen, knitting bones, mending flesh, soothing the irregular balance of a body hurt beyond bearing, weaving together the broken patterns of blood and humours, not water now but fire —

 

And then it was done. The blaze inside her went out like a pinched candle.

 

Fel followed it.


	77. By The Fire - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen makes another plan.

_5th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

 

_I wasn’t hurt as badly as I thought_ , Killeen told herself as she carried Fel back to their camp. _I was afraid. I remembered the_ other _dragon. I imagined things._

 

Except her shirt was seared to ash down one sleeve and soaked with blood.

 

And while she might very well imagine a dragon even where there was none, there was no reason for her to conjure up out of nowhere Fel saying _Get better_ in a voice as clear and powerful as Lady Vivienne herself —

 

Or the green glow that had poured from her hands and into Killeen, bringing with it the uneasy, unmistakable feeling of bones and flesh and skin _mending,_ a year’s healing in a moment.

 

“Wake up, honey,” she said, for the third time. Fel didn’t stir. Killeen set her down by the embers of their fire, added more wood and blew until it caught, then sat down and drew the girl onto her lap. “Wake up, please.”

 

The girl’s pulse was slow, but regular, her skin neither over-warm nor chilled. There was nothing to distinguish this from a natural sleep —

 

Except she wouldn’t wake.

 

Killeen was no Templar, but she’d heard Cullen talk, from time to time, about mages, and the Harrowing. _The first time a mage enters the Fade … to defeat demons or be defeated by them_. Their bodies lying, apparently asleep, until the moment they awoke either Harrowed … or Abominations.

 

Was Fel in the Fade?

 

Was she even now contending with demons?

 

_She’s too young_. How could a child defeat the worst the Fade had to offer?

 

_She’s Fel_. _In a pinch, I’d bet on her against the Inquisitor herself_.

 

Still, Killeen eased the dagger from her boot, laid it close to hand.

 

She curled herself around the girl, stroking her hair, as if the strength of her arms could guard against the intangible hazards beyond the Veil. “Don’t believe anything,” she whispered, in case Fel could hear her the way Cullen could hear her in his dreams. “Don’t trust anything. Trust yourself. Trust that you know what’s right. Come back to me safe.”

 

She had no idea how long they sat like that, how many times she whispered the same sentences, pretending she wasn’t helpless, pretending that she could defend Fel against all dangers — even the ones from the Fade …

 

It was _her_ responsibility, to defend Fel. She was the soldier, the Guard … the _adult_.

 

But she could do nothing. She cradled Fel in her arms, murmured to her, knowing that if she had been a Templar she would have known what to look for, knowing that if she had been a mage she could have followed Fel into the Fade and defended her …

 

She was not a Templar. She was not a mage. She was just a soldier, adept at sticking a sword into hazards, out of her depth when it came to anything that couldn’t be solved by perforation.

 

She was just a soldier, worse than useless.

 

Killeen studied Fel’s face in the firelight for any sign of returning consciousness, whispering reassurance, until finally Fel’s eyelashes fluttered and her lips moved a little.

 

“Fel?” Killeen said carefully. “Fel, can you hear me?”

 

The girl opened her eyes, and Killeen studied them for some sign of a different, foreign, mind behind them. “Kill?”

 

“I’m here,” Killeen said. _Would there be some clear and obvious sign?_ Oh, why oh why had she not asked Cullen more questions about Templars’ training and knowledge? “How are you?”

 

“Tired,” Fel said, and yawned hugely. “Are you better?”

 

“Yes, honey, I am. You’ve been asleep for a while,” Killeen said. “Were you dreaming?”

 

“I think so,” Fel said.

 

“What did you dream about?” Killeen asked carefully.

 

“People,” Fel said, and yawned again. “Lots of different people.”

 

“Tell me about them,” Killeen said, heart in her throat. “Did they talk to you?”

 

“Yes,” Fel said. “They wanted stuff. They said they’d give me things, but really, it was because they wanted stuff. Except Cole’s friend.”

 

“Cole’s friend?”

 

“She said she was Cole’s friend,” Fel said. “I said that I didn’t know if that was true, and she said that was a good answer, and I shouldn’t believe anyone, even her, when I was dreaming.”

 

“That sounds like good advice,” Killeen said.

 

“She was the only one who didn’t want anything,” Fel said, and yawned again. “Kill, I’m really tired.”

 

“It’s all right,” Killeen said. “You can sleep. Just remember, don’t believe anyone. Even Cole’s friend.”

 

“Yeah,” Fel said, and fell asleep again quite suddenly.

 

Killeen lifted her gently off her lap and left her curled by the fire while she caught, killed, and butchered another nug. The smell of roasting flesh woke Fel again, and they shared the meat.

 

“Fel,” Killeen said carefully as they ate. “Do you understand what you did was magic?”

 

“I guess,” Fel said. “It didn’t feel like I’d think magic would feel.”

 

“Well, it was,” Killeen said. “And you know, that means you’re a mage.”

 

“I’m not!” Fel said. “I’m not, and I won’t be! You can’t make me be!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t want to live in a Circle and never do anything fun and be _boring_!”

 

“Well, you won’t have to,” Killeen said.

 

“Mages live in Circles!”

 

“I’ll make sure you don’t have to live in a Circle,” Killeen said. “And you can do whatever you want in your life. But you’re still going to be a mage, even if you don’t use magic. Like having red hair, or being left-handed. And mages have to worry about things most people don’t.”

 

“Demons,” Fel said, nodding. “I know.”

 

“I think the people talking to you in your dreams were demons, trying to get you to let them into this world,” Killeen said. “You have to be very very careful never to let that happen, do you understand?”

 

Fel nodded solemnly.

 

“When we get back to Skyhold, we’ll talk to Dorian. Things are different in Tevinter. Mages don’t have to live in Circles there. He’ll be able to tell you how to keep yourself safe, all right? But meanwhile, you have to keep it a secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

 

“Not even Ser Bear?”

 

_“Would you send our son or daughter to a Circle?”_

_“Yes,” Cullen says._

“Not even Ser Bear,” Killeen said. “It’s our secret, for now. And you have to be really careful about the things you dream. You have to remember what you know is true, and right, no matter what. All right?”

 

“Yes,” Fel said.

 

“Promise me, Fel, it’s really important.”

 

“I promise,” Fel said. “Kill, did you kill the dragon?”

 

“No,” Killeen said, and the girl’s face fell. “But I put out one of its eyes. And if I can put out the other one, it’s as good as killing it, because it won’t be able to see us when we leave.”

 

“But …” Fel said. “Kill, if you get hurt again, I don’t know if I can get you better again. The well is all empty.”

 

“The well?”

 

Killeen listened as Fel explained, haltingly, about seeing a well in her head, the source of her power. “Is it all gone?” she asked, thinking _mage power doesn’t work like that._

_Does it?_

 

Fel closed her eyes, a strange, inward expression on her face. “Not all,” she said at last. “There’s a little down the bottom.”

 

“Mages can only do so much magic at a time,” Killeen said. “Then they have to wait, or take lyrium philters. So probably, the well will fill up again.” She reached out and smoothed Fel’s hair back from her face. “And we have time to wait — and I’ll have less chance of getting hurt next time, because the dragon won’t be able to see me at all.”

 

“Why do we have time?” Fel asked.

 

“We have to build a raft,” Killeen said. “And paddles. And smoke meat. And work out how to store water on the raft. And make fish hooks.”

 

“I bet we could use nug bones for that,” Fel said.

 

Killeen smiled at her. “I bet you’re right. Don’t worry, Fel. We’re going to get off this island, and back to Skyhold. We just have to be smart, and careful. All right?”

 

“All right,” Fel said.

 


	78. In The Islands - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen searches

_5th Harvestmere - 11th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen kept out of Isabela’s way as much as he could, on the cramped confines of the _Siren_.

 

It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if the Captain of the ship on which they travelled should try propositioning him again, and he could not extricate himself gracefully. He would not put it past Isabella to simply put them ashore and sail off, if she felt slighted.

 

He would not put much past her, in truth — although she had been one of Hawke’s companions for many years, which suggested at least some consistency and sense of loyalty.

 

Still, Cullen kept his distance, leaning on the rail during the day, straining his eyes for the sight of land. He did not want to think about … there were things he did not want to think about, although he knew he would have to contemplate them eventually.

 

Whether the demon was truly gone, or only sleeping … and he knew the answer, knew it from the hesitation he’d felt each time the words _Marry me, Killeen_ had caught in his throat, but he could not afford to be distracted by it, not now, not while Killeen was missing and perhaps in danger.

 

The _Siren_ circled Ironview Island without seeing any sign of life — nothing on the island’s scanty beaches, no smoke from a fire. Isabela asked if Cullen wanted to send the ship’s boat ashore to search further.

 

He had to weigh up the possibility that Killeen and Fel were there, hidden, against the time a search would cost.

 

In the end, he couldn’t take the risk that they had come ashore, crawled out of sight, and were now lying too weak to signal to the ship. The sailors rowed him ashore, and they tramped up and down the beaches, looking for any sign, any break in the under-brush.

 

Killeen and Fel were not there.

 

They repeated the same process at Turtle Island. Belmere took little time, the island hardly vegetated and providing no cover, so they turned southward.

 

“Why is it called Dragon Island again?” Alistair asked suspiciously as it came into view. “Dragons are bad. What with the claws, and the fire, and the swooping. Especially the swooping.”

 

“It’s called Dragon Island because it looks like a dragon,” Isabela said. “We can’t get closer — there’s a hard current that will take the _Siren_ onto the rocks if we get trapped in it.”

 

Cullen scanned the shore of the island with Isabela’s spyglass. There was … was that a trickle of smoke coming from the trees beyond the shore? And there, on the beach, something that was too sharp and regular to be driftwood — broken barrels, a crate — he focused the glass more carefully and made out the inverted ‘K’ in a diamond of Kirkwall’s main provisioner.

 

“They’re —” he started to say.

 

“Come about, come about!” Isabela bellowed by his ear.

 

The ship heeled sharply. “Wait, they’re there!” Cullen cried, lowering the spyglass and turning to see sailors hauling on ropes, the helmsman spinning the wheel with all his might.

 

“Full sail!” Isabela yelled. “Full sail!” With a creak and a flap, extra canvas was hauled aloft and filled with wind.

 

“You said there was no dragon!” Alistair shouted, clinging to the rail as the ship began to pick up speed. “It just looks like one, you said!”

 

_What … ?_

Cullen looked back toward the island and saw a bird flying straight toward them, oddly shaped, tail-feathers close together and —

 

He realised it wasn’t a bird. “Sweet _Maker_.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Isabela said. “The _Siren_ can outrun anything.”

 

“I hope you’re more accurate about that than you were about the lack of _dragons_ on _Dragon_ Island!” Alistair said.

 

“We have to go back,” Cullen said to Isabela. “Killeen and Fel are on that island.”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Alistair said. “That’s a dragon! It’s a dragon! And it’s swooping!”

 

Cullen glanced back. The dragon was not, in fact, swooping — it was flying steady and straight, but it was not getting any larger. “I saw smoke from a fire, I saw wreckage from the crates we cast overboard,” he said. “They’re there. They’re alive. We have to go back!”

 

“Unless you have a dozen mages in your pocket, _no_ ,” Isabela said. “The only way to fight a dragon with steel is when it’s _on the ground_. If we let it close with us, it’ll rip off the mast and then pick us off the deck one by one.”

 

The island, and the dragon, were falling further behind. “Then come in to shore and we’ll fight it on land,” Cullen said.

 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Marian Hawke?” Isabela said incredulously.

 

Cullen took her arm. “Killeen and Fel are on that island and they’re on that island with that dragon. Turn the ship! Put in to shore!”

 

“I can’t!” Isabela said. “There’s no anchorage — the only way ashore would be the ship’s boat and that’d leave both the boat and the _Siren_ sitting ducks for that thing!”

 

“I’ll take the boat,” Cullen said.

 

“Steady on,” Alistair said. “Better to get reinforcements. A couple of dozen mages and a battalion of soldiers, for example.”

 

“They had no food, no water, no warm clothes,” Cullen said. “We can’t sail away and leave them!”

 

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything,” Isabela said. “ _I’m_ sailing away and leaving them! I’m the captain of this ship, and _I_ am not going to commit suicide by sailing straight at a fucking dragon!”

 

“Double your fee,” Cullen said, and when she hesitated, “Triple. Triple your fee. To get close enough for me to take the ship’s boat ashore.”

 

“And how will you pay me when you’re dead?” Isabela asked.

 

“I’ll write it out. The Inquisition will honour it.”

 

She chewed her lip. “Get your gear,” she said at last, and turned to bellow commands that had sailors pulling on ropes and the ship turning.

 

“I’ll need supplies — if you’re not going to stay to take us off again.” Isabela opened her mouth to argue, and Cullen reminded her, “Triple your fee.”

 

“Fine,” she said. “But I’ll have your note in my hand before a finger touches that boat.”

 

“You will,” Cullen promised. He turned to go below, stopped as Alistair grabbed his arm.

 

“Are you _sure_ they’re there?” Alistair asked. “Not _sure_ the way you were sure they were still alive, but _sure_ the way you’re sure the sky is blue.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “I’m sure.” He hurried below.

 

It was the work of a moment to find parchment, quill and ink — a little longer to write legibly with the pitching of the ship — he blew on the note to dry it and put it in a pocket. He considered putting on his armour, then thought of the possibility of the boat overturning — he seized the packs holding his gear and Killeen’s and headed back to the deck.

 

He met Alistair, similarly burdened, in the corridor. The other man gave him a wide, slightly mad, grin. “Can’t let you hog all the fun, can I?” he shouted over the creaking of the hull and the slap of the waves. “Besides, you’ll never handle the boat on your own. Even with two of us on the oars it’ll be a near-run thing.”

 

“Thank you.” It was entirely inadequate, but it was all Cullen could find to say.

 

When they reached the ship’s boat, already being readied to be lowered over the side, sailors were loading several sacks of supplies aboard. “Food, water,” Isabella leaned close to shout. “A few other usefuls.”

 

“Thank you,” Cullen said again.

 

She held out her hand. “Don’t thank me, just pay me.”

 

He pulled out the note and she scrutinised it before tucking it securely in her cleavage. “We’re going to run up as close as we can without losing the wind!” she said. “You’ll have a rough drop — and then you’re on your own.” She grinned. “Row hard, chantry boy. Row for your life.”

 

It _was_ a rough drop, the boat swung over the side and cut lose to fall to the waves with a teeth-rattling jolt. For a moment it wallowed side-on to the waves and seemed about to go over, and then Cullen seized and unshipped one oar and Alistair the other and they managed to turn the bow toward the shore.

 

The boat pitched sickeningly in the swell and then a wave lifted the stern, rolled under them —

 

“Now!” Alistair cried. “Stay on the wave!”

 

Cullen bent to his oar. He’d done his turn on the row-boat between Lake Calenhad Docks and the Circle Tower as a Templar-in-training and the rhythm came back to him as if it had been only yesterday, the knack of using his whole body rather than only his arms — for a moment the dip and sweep of the oars, the stretch and heave of each stroke, Alistair beside him moving in unison, the boat keeping pace with the wave and riding it smoothly in to shore, was so perfect that he found himself grinning with the pleasure of it.

 

They slipped off the back of the wave, crashed into the trough, and struggled together to catch the next one.

 

Glancing back over his shoulder to check their progress, Cullen saw the dragon rising again above the trees, turning toward them —

 

He stopped smiling. “Row!” he said to Alistair, and they bent to the oars with a will. Cullen wanted to look back again to see how close the dragon was, knew that there was no point to it — he could hear the leathery flap of its wings, coming closer, and closer. He risked another glance backward — perhaps if they went over the side of the boat it would confuse the dragon and —

 

From the _Siren_ , a horn sounded in challenge, and then a flight of arrows hissed through the air and rattled harmlessly against the dragon’s scales.

 

The dragon soared straight past the boat and toward the _Siren_ , from which another wave of arrows came. The ship had all her sails up and was moving fast. For a moment, from the angle, Cullen couldn’t tell whether it was moving fast enough, and then the increasing gap between ship and dragon was evident. The dragon roared and belched a blast of lighting that fell short of the _Siren_ and danced harmlessly on the waves.

 

 _Lightning_. _Not fire or frost._

Even if they went over the side of the boat, the water would not protect them against lightning.

 

_Entirely the reverse._

 

The dragon continued to chase the ship — _but for how long_? Cullen rowed until his arms and back burned, heard Alistair gasping for breath beside him —

 

“It’s coming back!” Alistair panted, and Cullen saw it was true — the dragon had given up, was turning back toward the island. Toward _them_.

 

He glanced over his shoulder. The beach was close — he glanced back — the dragon was closing fast.

“It’s going to swoop!” Alistair said.

 

 _If it were a fire or an ice dragon, we could go over the side, hope the sea water would shield us …_ But Cullen had seen soldiers die when a mage’s lightning blast struck water they were standing in.

 

It was closer and closer now, the beach still too far away — it was in range, in another second it would —

 

It passed close enough over them the Cullen could smell the odd, oily odour of its skin, and looking up, he saw that the great eye on that side was milky grey. _We’re on its blind side_ , he realised.

 

He didn’t dare explain to Alistair, in case the monster heard his voice when it hadn’t seen their boat. As the dragon passed over head and circled around the island they pulled for the shore with a will. The keel crunched on the shingle and Cullen leapt out and seized the side of the boat. Alistair did the same and they hauled it out of the water and up a little from the waves.

 

Cullen seized his pack and one of the supply sacks and then let them drop as Alistair gasped, “It’s coming back!”

 

“The trees!” _If we can reach cover_ —

 

Leaving the boat, the two men sprinted for the forest.

 

They had barely crossed half the distance when the dragon plunged down and settled before them.

 

 


	79. On The Beach - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dragon is fought

 

_11th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

Cullen drew his sword. “It’s blind on the right,” he gasped.“Try for the hamstrings.”

 

“I have fought one of these before, you know,” Alistair said, already moving to the right, increasing the distance between them, forcing the dragon to choose between targets. “Wait — _its_ right, or _my_ right?”

 

“ _Its_ right!” Cullen said as the dragon reared back on its hind legs, wings beating, raising sand and dirt in a blinding whirlwind. Cullen fought to keep his feet, sheltering his eyes with his free hand, wishing desperately for his armour and his shield. If they’d been forced to dive from the boat before reaching the shore, he’d have congratulated himself on his foresight in not putting on his gear before leaving the _Siren_. As it was …

 

The dragon thumped down again, head weaving, opened its mouth —

 

And a figure in ragged shirt and filthy breeches, armed with nothing more than a dagger, sprinted out from the cover of the trees and pelted past the dragon’s nose, slashing wildly at the creature’s nostrils in passing.

 

It was Killeen.

 

_Of course it’s Killeen_ , Cullen thought, discovering that it was possible to be both simultaneously absolutely shocked and utterly unsurprised. _It’s a dragon. She’s armed with nothing but a boot-knife._

_So naturally, she goes on the attack._

 

“Over here, you big bastard!” Killeen shouted, out of Cullen’s sight now behind the creature’s head. “Over here!”

 

The dragon snarled and turned to snap at her but she was already around its side. It turned, trying to find her, clawed with front and then hind feet, missed both times — Killeen kept moving, kept ahead of it as it turned, and turned —

 

_Keeping on its blindside,_ Cullen realised. Her dagger couldn’t do much harm but the dragon could clearly feel it, chasing her around itself as she dodged and slashed and ducked —

 

Cullen raised his sword and ran forward. Turned almost double as it sought the source of the irritating stings coming from the darkness on its right, the dragon’s neck was bent so sharply that the scales in front of him were raised from their usual impenetrably smooth overlap.

 

Cullen drove his sword beneath then, ramming it as hard as he could into the flesh beneath.

 

The dragon turned back to deal with this new threat and Cullen barely got his sword free in time to dodge backwards, trying to keep out of the way of the creature’s lighting breath and away from the mighty claws at the same time. He couldn’t see Alistair or Killeen past the dragon’s huge bulk but one of them, at least, must be on the other side because suddenly the dragon whipped its head back in that direction.

 

The hind leg was directly in front of him and he hacked at it, trying to sever the hamstring — the scales cracked but wouldn’t shatter — the dragon screamed and reared up — and in one front claw —

 

She was still alive, writhing to get free of the massive claws, stabbing in between them with her dagger. Blood spurted from one blow, thick and black, and the dragon screamed again and flung her away from it.

 

She flew clear across the beach, landed hard. Rolled like a rag doll —

 

Didn’t move.

The dragon made a coughing noise, head tracking toward Killeen’s still form like a trebuchet being cranked to aim.

 

“No!” Cullen swung at the scaly side beside him, splintering scales from the armoured skin. “No! Here! _Here_ , you bastard! _Here!_ ” Blood spurted beneath his blows, muscle parted …

 

The head turned. One mighty claw raked toward him and suddenly Cullen found himself flat on his back on the shingle, struggling for breath. He forced his hand to close on the hilt of his sword, forced himself to roll, to rise — the dragon was stooping above him, head turned to keep him in sight of its one good eye —

 

And on the top of that head was Alistair, standing balanced on the massive skull as easily as Isabela balanced on the desk of her ship. He turned, sword raised overhead, and as the dragon bowed its head toward Cullen, plunged his sword between the scales at the base of the dragon’s skull, driving it home with his whole weight, burying it up the hilt in the dragon’s brain.

 

The dragon collapsed all of an instant, so suddenly that Alistair lost his footing and hung from the hilt of his sword, scrabbling against the scaly shoulder for a foothold. He managed to get one, straddled the mighty neck and hauled his sword free.

 

Blood, thick and red, was soaking the sand. Cullen took a breath, shallow against the pain in his side, got his knee under him and tried to lever himself to his feet with his sword.

 

Alistair half-slid, half-scrambled, down the creature’s side. “When they swoop, it’s one thing,” he panted, patting the dragon’s leg. “On the ground, a lot easier.” Then he turned, and his face changed. The sword fell from his hand and he ran across the beach to Cullen, dropping to his knees.

 

Cullen tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t co-operate, and Alistair was holding him down rather than helping him.

 

“Lie still,” Alistair said. “Lie still — you’re all right, lie still — I’ll see what’s in Isabela’s supplies — just _lie still_ — ”

 

He scrambled to his feet and pelted toward the ship’s boat.

 

None of it made sense to Cullen. Nothing made sense except the still form sprawled on the shingle, rags of shirt fluttering in the sea breeze, a limp, motionless pile of limbs and cloth.

 

He managed to get to his hands and knees, tried again to get to his feet, and found himself face down once more. He raised himself to elbows and knees and began to crawl.

 

It was a very long way. The wind from the sea was cold. He was cold, everywhere except his chest and side, which were warm from the damp heat of his shirt. His hands were red and wet until the sand stuck to them, coating them, covering the red with grey.

 

He crawled for an hour, a year, a decade, knowing only that he was crawling toward Killeen, that each inch brought him closer to Killeen, that he would not stop crawling until he reached Killeen.

 

When did he reach her, it was almost a surprise. He said her name, or thought he did, reached out one sand-crusted hand to touch her arm.

 

She didn’t move.

 

“Killeen,” he said, dragged himself a little further, reached for her face. The tide was coming in, the roaring of the waves was coming closer. “Killeen.”

 

_My love. My darling. My all._

He closed his eyes. “Killeen,” he said again, knowing it was the last time he would call her name, knowing that from now on the only use it would be to him would to speak about her to others. _Killeen was … Killeen used to … Killeen often said …_

 

The faintest trace of warmth across his fingers, a movement of air that was not the sea breeze.

 

Cullen opened his eyes and managed to raise his head a little. Her breath brushed his fingers again, and then her eyelashes fluttered, and she coughed, and turned her head, and woke. “Cullen?” she whispered, almost inaudible beneath the pulse and crash of the sea.

 

“Hello, my love,” he said. “You scared me.”

 

She coughed again, and winced, feeling her side. “Fucking dragons.”

 

There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her, starting and ending with _I love you, I love you, I love you_ … but the waves were very close now, deafening him, and his thoughts dissolved in their salt spray.

 

He touched her hand again, closed his eyes and let the tide take him.


	80. On The Beach - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cliff-hanger is resolved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of battle injuries

 

_6th — 11th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

“You need to find more poison,” Killeen said to Fel the next morning. “The stuff you found worked, so more of that.”

 

“Okay,” Fel said, and shifted uncomfortably.

 

Killeen recognised _Fel not wanting to say something._ “What’s the matter?” she asked.

 

“I, um. Looked and looked for the others.” Fel looked down and fidgeted with the edge of her shirt. “I don’t know how much is left. They don’t grow much at this time of year.”

 

“Just do your best,” Killeen said. “We’re not in a big hurry. I have to find fallen trees to build the raft, too, and that won’t be quick.”

 

Fel nodded, but didn’t stop pleating and unpleating the hem of her shirt.

 

Killeen put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and drew her close. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said. “And I’m very glad you could make me better. I promise it won’t be as bad next time, all right? The dragon will be hungrier, and it won’t be able to see me at all once I put out its other eye.” She rubbed the girl’s back. “It’ll be all right, Fel. I promise. You’ve been really, really brave. Ser Bear will be proud of his squire when I tell him how brave you’ve been.”

 

Fel nodded against her chest but said nothing. Killeen felt a small, sharp pain in her chest, the same tearing ache she’d felt seeing Fel under the sickly green light of Corypheus’s last breach. _Oh, Fel, honey_ , she thought, _I promise I will get you out of this and I promise you will spend the rest of your childhood playing with Ser Calenhad and complaining about your schoolwork and having nothing more to worry about than how to deal with the class bully. I promise, I promise, I promise …_

 

“We just have to do two more things, honey,” she said. “We have to build a raft, and we have to put out the dragon’s other eye. And then we’ll paddle over to the shore and find someone to send a message to Skyhold and Ser Bear will come and get us. Just two more things.” She kissed the top of Fel’s head. “Can you do two more things with me?”

 

“Yes,” Fel said stoutly, sat up.

 

“Good girl,” Killeen said. “I’m really proud of you. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be stuck on an island with a dragon with, you know.”

 

“Not even Ser Bear?” Fel asked skeptically.

 

“Ser Bear can’t find poison plants,” Killeen said. “Although I’d be glad of that horrible cloak of his right now.”

 

It won her a smile, and once they’d finished their morning nug, Fel set off into the forest to find more toxic plants and roots with straight shoulders and a confident stride.

 

Killeen set out to find fallen trees that were relatively straight, or could be made so with her dagger.

 

They spent all day at their respective tasks, and the next, Fel ranging further and further in search of anything that might poison or sedate the dragon, Killeen hauling tree-trunks through the forest to the side of the island closest the the smudge of land on the horizon. In the evenings, in the brief gap of time between finishing their evening nug and falling asleep from exhaustion, they wove thin branches stripped from saplings into long cables.

 

After five days, they had almost enough herbs and roots for a second try at the dragon, had hauled fifteen fallen but not yet rotten trees to the other side of the island, had woven sufficient ropes from the thinest saplings and branches to bind those trunks together.

 

“One more day,” Killeen said to Fel, plucking a chunk of nug from her dagger.

 

Fel nodded, and then looked upward suddenly. “Kill! Did you hear that?”

 

Killeen had — the unmistakable sound of the dragon’s wings.

 

“Is it hunting us?” Fel asked.

 

“Maybe,” Killeen said. “But we’re safe in the trees. You stay here, keep working on the ropes. I’ll go and see what it’s doing.”

 

She crept to the edge of the forest. The dragon was flying out to sea — _Leaving_ , she thought with relief, _leaving_ — but no, on second glance she could see sails, could see a ship the dragon was pursuing — _Maker’s balls, rescue was **that** close — _

 

And then saw the boat, two men rowing it to shore.

 

 _Cullen_.

 

She had no reason to believe it, no logical basis — but it was rescue, and if it was rescue, it was Cullen.

 

The dragon turned back. _Andraste’s tits!_ The boat was still too far from shore, it would catch them on the water and —

 

It flew straight past them, and Killeen realised the boat had been on its blindside.

 

 _Oh, hurry, hurry_ , she urged them silently, seeing the two men in the boat rowing with all their might. Above her the dragon circled, turned —

 

The boat reached the shore. The two men leapt out, dragged it up the beach, turned —

 

Began to run for the trees.

 

They had not covered more than half the distance when Killeen’s view of them was cut completely off by the dragon’s scaly side as the beast settled on the beach.

 

Cullen came into view, circling around — and it was clearly Cullen now, he was close enough for Killeen to see his face, the curl in his salt-dampened hair completely defeating the pomade he used, the wind whipping his shirt close against the long muscles of his arm and back, face calm and intent the way he always looked going in to a fight, the way she’d seen him look a _hundred_ , a thousand times —

 

The dragon turned to keep him in sight, mouth opening.

 

 _Fire gouting out over her_ , _skin crisping, her own body smelling like a roast on the spit —_

 

Killeen shoved it away, yanked her dagger out of her boot and ran forward. She pelted past the dragon’s giant head, slashing at it with her dagger to get its attention, and kept moving, staying on the side where it couldn’t see her through the eye she’d put out, stabbing again and again with her dagger, not out of any hope it would do real damage, but to keep it hunting _her_ , following _her —_ they spun around and around in a deadly dance, her life depending on staying just ahead of it, just out of sight —

 

A misstep on her part, a lucky swipe on its — suddenly she was in the air, the dragon’s talon through her shirt — she struggled to get free, hacked with her dagger, first, uselessly, at the claws and then at the flesh between the talons — the dragon roared, and then cloth ripped and she was falling, flying — tumbling into darkness.

 

She came slowly up out of the dark to the touch of a hand on her face, to a voice. To _Cullen’s_ voice.

 

“Killeen. My love. My darling. Killeen.”

 

_Am I dead?_

_No,_ she decided. She hurt too much to be dead. Her eyelids weighed a tonne, but she managed to open them, turned her head. “Cullen?”

 

_Definitely not dead. Or else the Maker has a really twisted sense of humour when it comes to what comes next._

_Not that I would put it past him._

But no, what came after death would not be a beach with a chill sea breeze and a giant mound of dead dragon.

 

Cullen lay beside her, his hand resting on her chest, his face crusted with sand.

 

“Hello, my love,” he said. “You scared me.”

 

Killeen coughed again, and winced, feeling her side. “Fucking dragons.”

 

He smiled at her, and then his eyes rolled up and he went limp.

 

She rolled over, back and belly aching as if she’d been beaten by Qunari armed with polearms. “Cullen!” He was out, utterly, not even the flicker of a eyelid in response. “Cullen!”

 

Running her fingers through his hair, she searched for a head-wound, found nothing. His shirt was crusted with sand — Killeen pulled it up and saw —

 

_No, no, no, no …_

 

Blood — so much blood — still welling from his side and chest, massive gouges, but oozing slowly now, sluggishly, with the slowing beat of his heart —

 

Killeen lifted her head. “Fel!” she screamed. “Fel!”

 

She pressed her hand over the worst of the wounds, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it pulsed out against her palm. Yanking up his shirt, she saw the grey coils of his guts pressing through the rents in his skin, tried to press them back, knowing as she did so that it was useless, that a gut wound that deep was —

 

 _Not survivable_.

 

 _Not always_ , she told herself, forcing away the fear and the knowledge of the pain to come, his, hers … _Not always. Sometimes people live._

_Not often, but sometimes. Sometimes._

 

Running footsteps and a man — _Alistair_ — next to her. “Bandages,” he panted. “No potions in the supplies.”

 

 _Bandages are not going to be enough_.

 

“Fel!” she yelled again, and the girl came racing down the beach toward her. Alistair was trying to push Cullen’s innards back inside his body and bandage them there, cursing quietly — Killeen reached out one bloody hand and grabbed Fel’s as the girl skidded to a stop.

 

“Ser Bear?” Fel said, face white, eyes wide.

 

“He’s hurt,” Killeen said. “It’s bad, Fel.”

 

Fel looked at Alistair, frantically trying to staunch the bleeding, then back at Killeen. _You said to keep it a secret_ , her eyes said.

 

Killeen nodded, hauled herself around so she was between Fel and Alistair, and gave the girl a nod. _Please, Fel . Please._

 

The girl took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and screwed up her face. She reached out her hands and touched Cullen’s arms. Killeen saw her lips move, and then a green pulse — only a small one —

 

“That’s got it!” Alistair said. Killeen turned her head to see him wrapping the bandages around Cullen’s chest. The bleeding had almost stopped — there was the trace of colour in Cullen’s cheeks —

 

Fel looked at her, eyes huge in her white, pinched face. “I can’t do more,” she whispered, “unless …”

 

“No,” Killeen whispered back urgently. “Only what’s yours, Fel. Only what’s yours.”

 

Fel nodded, and Killeen turned to look down at Cullen. “Cullen?” she said. “Cullen?”

 

He opened his eyes.

 

Killeen let herself sink down on the shingle beside him, aching from head to foot.

 

“Hello, Ser Bear,” Fel said, her voice shaking with fatigue.

 

“Hello, cubling,” Cullen said weakly. “I’m glad to see you.”

 

“I’m glad to see you too,” the girl said, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Cullen raised his hand slowly and patted her hair.

 

“Kill?” he asked.

 

“Here,” Killeen managed to say. _It had worked … whatever Fel had done had worked_ … she knew she was relieved, knew she was happy, knew she was glad beyond measure to see Cullen again … felt nothing but a crushing exhaustion and the desire to curl up next to him on the sand and sleep for a week, safe in the shelter of his arms.

 

“You’re all right?” His fingers touched her hair and she managed to move one leaden, trembling arm to fumble at his sleeve.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Dragons.” Alistair said, sitting back on his heels and raking his fingers through his hair. “Fucking dragons.”

 

 

 

 

 


	81. In Denerim - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Anora

_12th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

“Quickly now! Quickly!”

 

Mia blinked in the sudden light of the open carriage door. She and Krem and Thomas had been riding in the dark for … for she didn’t know how long, although it had been more than one day and night she was sure. The carriage had stopped occasionally, and they had been allowed out to relieve themselves and given some food and water, but it was always dark outside when that happened.

 

When they had been first led through Amaranthine’s narrow streets to the Guardhouse, Mia had been hopeful they would soon be released. True, if the Guard Sergeant was telling the truth, they had committed a crime by not reporting Alistair to the law once they knew he was a wanted man, but there was no evidence that they _had_ known. Neither she nor Krem had been often out of their lodgings, Krem because of his still-healing knee and herself because she had no great liking for wandering alone in a strange city — and any questions addressed to their neighbours would confirm it. They could quite plausibly have never seen any notice about Alistair.

 

_Jean knows we did_ , Mia thought. She ducked her head down as if checking on Thomas, in case the thought showed on her face. _But then, it is her word against both of ours_ _…_

The Guard Captain had not seemed terribly interested in her, or Krem, or what either of them knew or had known, and Mia had allowed herself to remain hopeful. _This is routine_ , she’d told herself. _They will ask us a few questions, write down the answers, and let us leave._

 

They _had_ asked questions, _name, date of birth, place of usual residence,_ and they _had_ written down the answers, and it _had_ seemed as if they were about to be released … until the woman the Guard Sergeant had addressed as _Hawkins_ had come back, hurried across the room, and bent down to whisper something in the Guard Captain’s ear.

 

There had been a small pause, and then the Guard Captain had leaned back in his chair. “Let’s start again.”

 

Then the questions had no longer been about Alistair … but about Cullen.

 

The Commander of the Inquisition had been seen boarding the ship of a notorious pirate in the company of a wanted criminal, the Guard Captain told them. Both Commander Cullen and said wanted criminal had been sharing lodgings — the very lodgings where Krem and Mia had been discovered.

 

Was there anything, he had asked them, they could think of that could explain matters?

 

Krem had tried to argue that they had all been chance-met companions who had happened to take the same ship, staying together after the storm had driven their vessel into Amaranthine Harbour.

 

It might have worked, too — if the Harbour Master had not recorded the name of the galleon and her captain, and if the Guard Captain had not known that ship was not for hire, but owned by the Inquisition.

 

And thus they had been hauled out of the Guard House, shoved into a carriage without windows, and jolted from pillar to post for uncountable hours — _days_ , Mia thought, although she could not be certain.

 

The noise of the carriage wheels and the constant jolting had made talking difficult, and the one time Mia had started to ask Krem where he thought they were going, he’d pointed to the roof of the carriage and then to his ear. _We_ _’re being listened to_ , he meant, and so Mia had kept her questions, and her anxieties, to herself.

 

And now, suddenly, the door was open, bright daylight behind it, men shouting at her, _quickly, hurry up, come on —_

 

“Bear up,” Krem said softly, and went out the door.

 

Mia cradled Thomas and followed.

 

The relief of the cold, fresh air after the stuffiness of the carriage was overwhelming and Mia took big gulps of it as the soldiers hurried her and Krem across a cobblestoned courtyard. Krem was limping more badly than he had been for days, and Mia could understand why as her own legs protested after so long cramped in the carriage.

 

They were hustled through a door, along a corridor, up a flight of stairs, so quickly Mia had hardly a chance to take in her surroundings, all her attention on keeping her feet and keeping Thomas sheltered in her arms. Another corridor, this one with wall-hangings — more stairs, and then —

 

Through a door and into a long, high hall, and suddenly the need for haste seemed to vanish, and Mia could stop and catch her breath and look around.

 

It was as tall and wide as the Great Hall at Skyhold, which until then had been her sole experience of a grand building. This room had an upper level, though, arches showing a walkway around three sides, and it was darker, without the great coloured glass windows that dominated one end of Skyhold’s hall behind the Inquisitor’s chair. Nor did it have the rich jumble of rugs on the floor, or the long tables crowded along its length where Skyhold’s people sat and ate and talked. Instead, a single long aisle led to an imposing chair on a high dais, carefully placed so the single beam of light from the room’s one high window fell upon it and turned the braided yellow hair of the woman seated there to a crown of gold.

 

Queen Anora raised her hand and beckoned, and the soldiers urged Krem and Mia forward, to stop at the foot of the stairs that led up to the throne.

 

Krem bowed. Mia curtsied as well as she could, balancing Thomas. She doubted the queen would make allowances for the difficulty caused by the weight of a child — even if Anora had not been, by popular rumour, unable to conceive during her marriage to King Cailan, a noblewoman would have an army of nursemaids at her disposal.

 

“You’ve been harbouring a criminal,” Queen Anora said. Her voice was mild but it was not kind.

 

“Not knowingly, your majesty,” Krem said humbly.

 

 “And continue to refuse to yield him to the law,” Anora went on, as if Krem hadn’t spoken.

 

“I can’t yield what I don’t have, your majesty,” Krem said. “I don’t know where this man your soldiers seek is, and that’s the Maker’s own truth.”

 

“A convenient truth.”

 

“Not from where I’m standing, your majesty.”

 

“And what about you?” Anora asked Mia. “Do you know where the Bastard is?”

 

It was the second time she’d heard the term applied to Alistair and Mia suddenly remembered Alistair’s words the night he’d come back to their lodging with the parchment offering a reward for him. _What did you do_ , she’d asked, and …

 

_Was born_ , had been his answer.

 

_Was fathered_ would have been a more accurate one, Mia was beginning to suspect.

 

She kept her thoughts from her face. “No, majesty. I don’t. By Andraste’s sword, we told your soldiers everything we knew.”

 

“You did not,” the Queen said with absolutely certainty. She gestured, and a man in a plain black robe stepped forward and gave her a piece of parchment. “Cremisius Aclassi, Lieutenant of the Bull’s Chargers, suspected agent of the Ben-Hassrath. Currently, with the rest of your company, in the service of the Inquisition.”

 

_Pawn to Queen_ _’s Mage four_ , Mia thought.

 

“Never one of the Ben-Hassrath, Majesty,” Krem countered. “And we work with, not for, the Inquisitor. But otherwise, at your service.”

 

Anora studied him a second, then turned to Mia and made her next move. “And Mia Rutherford.”

 

“I’m married now, your majesty,” Mia said. _Pawn to King_ _’s Knight three._ “But yes, that was my name.”

 

“Sister to Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces.” Anora glanced up. “The customs-men recorded your names when you came ashore in my city. You might have saved yourself an uncomfortable journey if you’d been honest from the start.” Her nose wrinkled slightly, and Mia was sharply aware of her own unwashed odour, and Krem’s, and Thomas’s filthy clouts.

 

“Your majesty, I’m but a farm-wife,” Mia said, keeping her eyes lowered as if in humility and letting the lilt of South Reach come through in her voice. _This is a defencive game_ , she thought. _There is no chance to win against the Queen — but I can play to a stalemate._ “I was that frightened by your soldiers, begging your pardon, your majesty. They said they acted on your warrant, but how was I to know that was the truth?”

 

“You know it know,” Anora said.

 

“Yes, your majesty,” Mia said, and dipped another curtsy for good measure.

 

“So you can tell me, what is Commander Cullen doing with the Bastard?”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know, your majesty, I never heard him called that, I only knew him as a sword for hire who came with us from Kirkwall. I talked with him little, him being so often drunk.”

 

“Where were they going?” Anora asked.

 

“That I don’t know either, your majesty. One of our company was lost from the ship in the storm and my brother went to seek her.”

 

“Oh, come now,” Anora said with a flick of her fingers. “You were doing so well.”

 

“It’s the Maker’s own truth,” Mia said.

 

“The Commander of the Inquisition quartering the Waking Sea for a corpse?”

 

“He thinks she lives, Majesty,” Krem interjected. “He meant to search the shore for her.”

 

“Or he realised that whatever purpose the Inquisition has for the Bastard was imperilled should he be arrested and fled,” Anora said. “No matter. Either way, your brother will bring his new friend to me.” She smiled without humour. “If he is a fond and loving brother, that is, who wishes to see his sister again.” Another gesture. “Take them away. Treat them gently and lodge them in the East Wing.”

 

“But —” Mia started to say, and Krem trod heavily on her foot. She closed her mouth, and did not resist when one of their guards took her arm — more gently than before.

 

As the doors to the hall closed behind them, Mia heard Anora call, “And send in my scribes. I have letters to write.”

 

 


	82. By The Campfire - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen makes a plan.

 

_11th Harvestmere - 12 Harvestmere_

* * *

 

Cullen’s eyes closed again.

 

_What next?_ Killeen asked herself. Her thoughts were foggy and sluggish, but in a way familiar from the aftermath of a dozen long, hard fights. It was why every Kirkwall Guard learnt checklists and routines, why Killeen had taught those same lists to every Inquisition soldier she’d trained — so they could act without thinking, when thinking was too hard.

 

_Assess the wounded_.

 

Killeen felt for the pulse at Cullen’s throat, found it steady, although weak. The bandages Alistair had wrapped around his chest and abdomen were spotted with blood, but the spots weren’t getting any larger.

 

_Fall back to a place of safety._

 

“We have a camp in the trees,” she said to Alistair, and he nodded.

Without Alistair’s help, Killeen  didn’t think she could have gained her feet, her back and side stiffening and a strained muscle low in her gut cramping and aching. She gritted her teeth and helped Alistair lift Cullen’s limp form, ignoring the protest of her muscles.  Between them, they half-carried, half dragged Cullen back to the campsite. Killeen checked the bandages Alistair had wrapped around his wounds. The bleeding had stopped but the injuries were still bad. _Still not survivable._

_Establish a base._

“Get the rest of the gear from the boat,” she told Alistair. “Tie it up to one of the stronger trees, if you can.” She offered him the cable she and Fel had been making. “We’ll need it to get to help.”

 

Alistair took the make-shift rope. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and made his way off through the trees.

 

“I’m sorry, Kill,” Fel whispered urgently.  “I didn’t have —”

 

“It’s all right,” Killeen said. She glanced at Cullen, who still seemed unconscious. “Shh, don’t talk about it.”

 

She didn’t need Fel to explain that her strength had still not fully returned. She had no idea how long it would take for the girl to recover the magic that she had shown when she had healed Killeen —

 

_If she can keep Cullen alive until we get him proper help, that_ _’s enough_.

 

And then, chilling thought. “Fel, don’t borrow anything from the people in your dreams,” she whispered hastily to the girl. “Don’t take any help from them. Cullen will be fine. All right?”

 

Fel nodded solemnly. “We could try poultices,” she said. “They worked on Ser Calenhad. Elfroot and spindleweed.”

 

“Go and find some, then,” Killeen said. As Fel ran off, Killeen fed the fire more wood, and then bent over Cullen. “Cullen?” she said softly, stroking his hair. “Cullen, can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered. “Hey, my darling,” she said gently. “You’ve had a bad fall. You need to stay still and rest, all right? I’ll take care of everything.”

 

His lips moved, shaping an inaudible word, and then the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Killeen …” he murmured.

 

“I’m here, my love,” she whispered. “You stay here with me too.”

 

She had longed for him to be with her, had tried to conjure him from memory and imagination, had not been strong enough to do what had to be done without at least that much of him — and here he was. She could not shake the feeling that she had _brought_ him here, summoned him out of safety and drawn him to this shore.

 

_To his death_.

 

_No_ , she told herself firmly. _No. I will not allow it. I will not allow him to die._

_Fel will keep him alive, and I will get him to help._

 

Alistair returned, laden down with two packs and a sack.

 

“Here,” he said, letting them slide to the ground, and turning back toward the beach. “I’ll get the rest.”

 

Killeen crawled over to the first pack and unlaced it. Her fingers touched thick fur, and she pulled out her own cloak, the great bear pelt a little stiff with salt. She spread it over Cullen and looked further, finding her armour — Alistair returned and as well as another sack of supplies he had her shield and sword.

 

“I could have used _these_ a hour ago,” Killeen said dryly.

 

There were no healing potions in the supply sacks, but there was a hatchet, flint and steel, some food, water canteens … _everything we needed a week ago._ There was even a small pan of thin-beaten tin.

 

And a small, angry kitten.

 

Killeen fished him out carefully. “Hello, Ser Calenhad,” she said. “I suspect you’ve used up another one of your nine lives.”

 

She settled the kitten under the cloak with Cullen, for whatever warmth the small animal might provide. _Warmth_ _…_

 

 “Build us a good fire,” she said to Alistair, and he nodded, and picked up the hatchet.

 

Slowly and stiffly, Killeen made her way down to the stream. It took her three tries to catch a nug, and as she made her way back to the campfire she had to stop every few steps and lean on a tree-trunk to catch her breath.

 

“Killeen,” Alistair said from out of the forest’s dim green gloom.

 

“Here,” she said.

 

He came toward her and took the carcass of the nug from her. “Killeen, Cullen is … those injuries. They’re not good.”

 

“I’ve seen people survive worse,” Killeen said, starting toward the campfire again.

“So have I,” Alistair said, “but not without a healer.”

 

“Then we have to get him to a healer,” Killeen said.

 

“Look around!” Alistair said. “Do you see any?”

 

Killeen had to stop again. “We have a boat,” she pointed out. “We have supplies. We have two people to row. All of that puts us ahead of where I was when I woke up this morning.”

 

“And when we reach the Storm Coast?” Alistair asked. “How many days of travel to somewhere we can get help?”

 

_The Storm Coast_. That was a blow — Killeen hadn’t really considered just where the island might be, but the Storm Coast, with its deserted shoreline, was probably the worst possibility. “However many days it takes,” she said shortly. “We’ll make it. _He_ _’ll_ make it.”

 

Alistair paused, looking at her. “You’re two of a kind, aren’t you?” he said.

 

“If you mean we neither of us give up without a fight, then yes,” Killeen said, stumbling the last steps to the campfire and sinking to her knees.

 

Fel was kneeling on the other side of the fire, mashing a handful of leaves between two rocks, Ser Calenhad curled beside her, watching with interest.

 

“What are those for?” Alistair asked suspiciously.

 

“Not dinner, don’t worry,” Killeen said. “Fel studied with the apothecary at Skyhold. She’s good with herbs.”

 

When Fel said the plants were ready, Killeen carefully unwrapped the bandages around the worst of Cullen’s injuries, and the girl spread her concoction over them, and then Killeen re-wrapped them. Alistair fetched some water in the pan and made nug stew — which did Killeen’s stomach no more favours than roast nug had. She roused Cullen enough to spoon some of the broth between his lips, and then encouraged Fel to curl up beside him and spread her cloak over them both.

 

She slung Cullen’s cloak around her shoulders and beckoned to Alistair. Obediently, he picked up his own cloak and followed her a short distance from the fire.

 

“All right,” Killeen said, sinking down to lean against a tree-trunk. “Tell me everything.”

 

“We made harbour in Amaranthine …” Alistair started.

 

Killeen listened as he gave a slightly meandering account of what had befallen the others since she’d gone over the side into the sea: the Bull’s departure with the Chargers and Dorian, in great haste but for what reason, he didn’t know; the bounty on his head; the compromised communications with Skyhold; Isabela and the _Siren_ _’s Calling_.

 

“Will she come back?” Killeen asked.

 

“She’s already been paid,” Alistair pointed out.

 

Killeen sighed. “Then _no_. All right. The forest is too dense to portage the boat over the island. We’ll need to row it around, but it’ll be easier to do it empty — so we’ll do that, then carry the gear, and Cullen, across. You can see land from the other side of the island, it can’t be too far.”

 

“Isabela said it’s treacherous crossing if you don’t know the currents,” Alistair said.

 

“Can you think of anything better?” Killeen snapped.

 

“No,” Alistair said. “I can’t. We could possibly hold out here, but …” He shrugged a little. “The weather’s turned. We don’t have enough supplies. And if Stanton didn’t get through to Skyhold, your Inquisitor doesn’t know she’s got a viper in her bosom.”

 

_And Cullen will die_.

 

Killeen levered herself to her feet. “We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left,” she said. “We’d better go move the boat.”


	83. In The Boat - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things do not go as planned

_13 Harvestmere - 15 Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

 

_Well, shit_ , Killeen thought, glancing over her shoulder to see the shore of the mainland getting further away rather than closer. “Row harder!” she shouted at Alistair over the hiss and slap of the waves.

 

“I _am_ rowing harder!” he shouted back.

 

“Kill?” Fel asked, from her position in the stern of the boat, braced in with Cullen and Ser Calenhad by their packs and bags of supplies and all three cloaks.

 

“It’s all right, honey,” Killeen called. “Just stay still.”

 

Fel nodded, and tucked her hands against Cullen’s cheek. Killeen was almost sure she saw the faintest green glow pass from one to the other.

 

_At least_ , she thought, struggling with her oar, _having something to do seems to help with seasickness._

Then a lurch had her throat filling with bile, and she amended that to _help with seasickness a bit._

“The current’s got us!” Alistair yelled. “We need to turn!”

 

Killeen nodded understanding and backed her oar as Alistair rowed, until the boat was following the waves instead of fighting them. Then he lifted his oar, and Killeen did the same.

 

He leaned over and spoke as quietly as he could and still be heard over the noise of the waves and the wind. “We can’t get in to shore here. We need to save our strength until we can.”

 

“Where will that be?” Killeen asked.

 

“Well …” Alistair gave her a wry smile. “How do you feel about little cakes?”

 

Killeen gaped at him. “ _Orlais?_ ”

 

“Isabela said that’s where the current would take you if you’d missed Dragon Island, so …” Alistair shrugged.

 

“Well, shit,” Killeen said, and then as the boat soared up the back of a wave and dipped down the side, leaned over and vomited nug stew into the waves.

 

Nothing about the next two days did anything to change her determination to never leave dry land again. At least they had water, which she could manage to keep down, and food, which she couldn’t. The weather stayed clear, and with all of them and the cat huddled in the bottom of the boat with the cloaks over them, they were tolerably warm.

 

Cullen didn’t improve — but then, he didn’t get much worse, either, and Killeen knew he ought to have, with those wounds. They had Fel to thank for that, unquestionably — the tiny trickles of healing magic which were all she could summon up without more rest were not enough to knit flesh but they were staving off fever and wound-rot. From time to time Killeen thought his skin was a little too warm, his eyes a little too bright — but then an hour later his forehead would be cool again, and he would manage a smile despite the pain the constant motion of the boat was obviously causing him.

 

_And if this Maker forsaken boat is taking us to Orlais_ _…_

Then the Divine Victoria was likely in Val Royeaux.

 

She wound her fingers through Cullen’s as she lay beside him in the bottom of the boat and pressed a kiss to the stubble of his unshaven cheek. “Hold on, my darling,” she whispered in his ear. “We’re going to where there’ll be help. Hold on a little longer.”

 

Somehow, despite the nausea, she managed to fall into an uneasy doze, only to jerk awake as Alistair bellowed until his voice cracked, “Land ho!”

 

Killeen poked her head out from under the cloaks. The chop was worse, but ahead of them —

 

She scrambled to her place on the bench and grabbed her oar.

 

They were able to row right up to the shore until the bottom of the boat ground against the gravelly sand. Killeen and Alistair jumped out, hauling the boat further up the shingle, the shock of the icy water seeping through her boots taking Killeen’s breath away. Once the boat was securely grounded she lifted Fel over the side with Ser Calenhad clutched in her arms, then their bundles of possessions — the sacks of supplies almost empty — and, finally, Cullen.

 

He roused a little as she raised him and carefully manoeuvred him over the edge of the boat. “I can walk," he protested.

  
"Shut up," she said. "You can't."

 

He  _could_ , a little, with her taking most of his weight. It was a wearying business, hauling him up to the dubious shelter of the shoreline trees, lugging their belongings up as well, even with Fel and Alistair's help. 

  
As she dropped the last bundle by Cullen's feet, the first flakes of snow began to fall. 

  
"We've got to find shelter," she said. 

 

Alistair pointed to a rocky bluff visible through the trees. "There, maybe," he said. "At least it'll cut the wind."

  
"Fel, I need you to help with the bags," Killeen said.

  
The little girl nodded, and picked up one of their packs without complaint. Staggering a little under its weight, she followed Alistair as he hoisted two more and led the way away from the sea shore. Killeen picked up the last, worked her arms through the straps and then hauled Cullen to his feet. "Not much further now," she promised him. 

 

The hill _did_ cut the wind, but even better, provided a cave. Killeen fashioned a bed for Cullen out of her cloak and his, although it was not much cushioning against the cold stone floor. She pulled on her armour and belted on her sword before going in search of fuel for the fire. A search of the nearby woods yielded disappointingly little, but at least enough for a small fire. Alistair stacked more branches just inside the cave entrance where, with luck, it would dry enough to be burnable before they froze to death. As the wind picked up and the snow fell more heavily, Killeen searched through the drifts at the base of the trees until she had a double handful of elfroot leaves, then slogged through the snow back to the water’s edge and tore up a couple of spindleweed plants that had managed to resist the cold.

 

Their meal was hardtack and water, sparing amounts of each.  As Fel pounded the elfroot and spindleweed to a paste, Killeen pulled off her boots and tried to dry and warm her feet beside the flickering campfire, insisted Alistair do the same — they had enough to worry about without either of them being half-crippled with blisters, chilblains or worse. 

 

“Ser Bear,” Fel said. “I have to change your bandages.”

 

Cullen roused himself with an effort that betrayed how weak he was — but his smile for Fel was warm and sweet. “You’re becoming quite the apothecary, cubling.”

 

“Aden taught me,” she said. “Stitches said I was a good learner.”

 

“You are,” Cullen said, pulling up his shirt to loosen the bandages around his side.

 

“Let me, love,” Killeen said, kneeling beside him. She leant down to whisper in his ear, “Don’t look. You’ll make her nervous.”

 

His mouth twitched in amusement. “Make _her_ nervous,” he murmured, but obediently turned his head, gaze fixed on the other side of the cave.

 

Careful to keep herself between Fel and Alistair, Killeen finished unknotting the bandages and unwound them.

 

“How bad is it?” Cullen asked quietly.

 

“Not too bad,” Killeen said, not entirely honestly. In places, the wounds were starting to scab, the flesh to knit — in others, they still gaped, and even in the flickering light of the fire she could see the puffiness and redness that spoke of wounds turning bad.

 

“This will help,” Fel said. She scooped up a handful of the pulverised herbs and spread them over the wounds and then paused, hands resting gently on Cullen’s side. She glanced past Killeen to Alistair and then closed her eyes, frowning in intense concentration. Her lips moved slightly — Killeen could barely hear her whisper, “ _Get better._ _”_

The slightest glow of green around her fingers, and Cullen gave a small sigh. “That does help, cubling,” he said. “Thank you.”

 

Fel opened her eyes. “I wish I could help more,” she said, and then her eyes rolled up and she pitched forward.

 

Killeen caught her. “Fel!” Cullen looked back sharply, started to move, and Killeen quickly shifted Fel’s limp form to one arm  and put her other hand flat on Cullen’s chest. “Don’t move. Alistair, come here, take care of Cullen’s bandages.”

 

The ex-Warden got to his feet and came over to do just that. “Is she all right?”

 

Killeen carried Fel to the fire, Ser Calenhad following, and checked her pulse. “I think she’s fainted.  Too long on short rations for a child.” She chafed the girl’s hands. “Come on, honey, wake up. Wake up, now.”   

 

She gave a gasp of relief as Fel’s eyelashes fluttered and then the girl stirred and woke. “Kill?”

 

“Here, honey, I’m here. You’re all right.”

 

“Tired,” Fel whispered.

 

“Oh, sweetling, I know, I know,” Killeen said, guilt sitting like a knot in her stomach. Fel had not complained, not once, had scraped up every ounce of her magic and poured it into Cullen’s healing, time and again … _No wonder she_ _’s exhausted._ “You’ve been very brave, and very strong.” _And you shouldn_ _’t have needed to be. I should have found a way … I should have done_ something _… She’s just a child, she shouldn’t have to be the one_ anyone’s _life depends on_ _…_

 

"How far do you think it is to Val Royeaux?" Killeen asked Alistair softly once Fel had fallen into an exhausted sleep and Cullen into a uneasy doze. 

  
Alistair hesitated before answering. "Several days, on foot," he said. "And if I remember the landscape right, without much shelter — it's open downs, grazing land, for a good day’s travel once you get past this forest. Don't suppose Isabela tucked a couple of horses in one of those bags, do you?"

  
"She's resourceful, but not  _that_  resourceful," Killeen said. She glanced over at Cullen, and when she looked back at Alistair she saw the same thought mirrored in his eyes.  _He'll never stand a journey like that._

_  
_ "I'll go,"Alistair said. "I'll bring back horses if I can beg, borrow or steal them — and if not, I'll just have to walk up to this Vivienne and give her the message that she's needed."

  
“Not quite so simple," Killeen said. “For one thing, she's also the Divine Victoria." It tore her heart to say it, but it was the truth. "It'll have to be me. I'll leave in the morning. You stay here and take care of them."

 

"This was all so much easier when Wynne was around," Alistair said. "Flames, I'd even welcome Morrigan right about now."    

  
"Or Cole," Killeen agreed, and then had to explain Cole to Alistair. 

  
She lay awake for a while, listening to Alistair snoring gently, tending the fire, and then curled against Cullen, careful not to jostle his injuries, and closed her eyes. _It_ _’ll be all right, my darling, my love, my beautiful man,_ she told him silently. _I_ _’ll bring back help. I won’t be gone long. It will be all right._

_  
_ Jolted awake in the darkness, heart pounding, hearing muttering from the fever-warm body beside her. "Maker," Cullen whispered, "Maker, no —”

 

"Cullen, you're dreaming," she said quietly, trying to shake him from the dream that had not plagued him in many months now. "Cullen."

  
Another whimper, and she realised that this one came from Fel. She slipped from beneath the cloaks covering Cullen and scrambled over the floor to the girl. Fel was was rigid, fists balled at her sides, eyes open.

  
“Fel!” She touched the girl's cheek, shook her — nothing. "Fel, wake up! Wake up!"

  
With a ferocious hiss, a bristling Ser Calenhad leapt onto Fel's chest and slashed at her cheek with razor sharp claws. 

  
Killeen cursed the cat and tried to shoo it away, but Fel went suddenly limp. "Kill?" she said groggily.

  
"Yes, I'm here, it's all right," Killeen said. She blotted at the girl’s bleeding face. "Ser Calenhad scratched you."

  
"He was in my dream," Fel said, raising herself on her elbows. "Only he didn't scratch me. He scratched the lady." 

  
"What lady?" Killeen asked. 

  
"The one who was talking to me. She wanted to visit. I didn't think I should let her, though."

  
_Well, shit._

_  
This is why mages are sent to Circles_ , Killeen thought,  _not because of the risk of accidental fires or sheets of ice ..._

 

_Because every mage is a doorway for abomination._

_  
"_ You must never, ever, say yes, Fel," she said as calmly as she could. "To her or anyone else. She wants to hurt you, and then hurt us. Do you understand?"

  
"Yes," Fel said earnestly.

  
Killeen blotted a last drop of blood from the scratch on Fel’s cheek. "Does she talk to you often?"

  
The girl shook her head. "Not her, never before," she said. "She told me it's because it's thin, here, that she can. Otherwise it's harder."

 

"Thin," Killeen said.  _Sweet Maker._

 

_We're at a weak spot in the veil._


	84. In The Snow - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, weather.

_15 Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

What Killeen knew about the Veil could have fit in a thimble and still left room for all the Qunari liquor any sane person would want to drink, but she’d heard Sera grumbling to Bull over drinks in the _Herald_ _’s Rest_ about Solas and his insistence on _strengthening the Veil_ and talk of _vulnerable places_.

 

“As if I don’t have enough things to have nightmares about,” Sera had said, and Bull had grunted agreement.

All Killeen had taken away from that conversation was the fact that there were places the Veil was thinner than others, and that thinness in the Veil was, generally speaking, undesirable.

 

 _Andraste_ _’s tits_ , she thought. _Why is it **me** dealing with this? Why not Solas, or Dorian, or Vivienne, or her Worshipful Inquisitorialness herself? _    


"She wants to come through," Fel said. “She wants it a  _lot_."

  
"Don't let her," Killeen said. “Don’t let her through, Fel.”

  
"She's very strong," Fel said.

  
Killeen took the girl's face between her hands. "You're stronger," she said firmly. "You're the strongest, bravest person I know. You're strong enough to stop her. All right?"

 

"All right."

  
_I've got to get her away from here_ , Killeen thought.  _She can come with me tomorrow when I —_

  
Except Fel couldn't, could she? Because although Alistair might not be aware of it, Killeen knew it was only Fel's fragile, tentative magic that had kept Cullen alive so far. If she took Fel with her... he would die. 

  
_And if she stays here, we'll **all** die_, Killeen thought. 

 

 _Oh, Maker_ _’s balls._

  
She kicked life into the remains of the fire, garnering enough light to see further than her hand in front of her face, and shook Alistair's shoulder urgently. He roused with a groggy mumble.

  
"We're leaving," Killeen said. "Now."

  
"Now? But it's ... Maker's loincloth, it's dark o'clock in the morning!" 

  
"Now," Killeen said, steel in her voice, beginning shove things into her pack.

  
Alistair raised himself on his elbows. "Why?"

  
_Food, water canteen, flint and steel_ _…_ "We're not safe."

  
Credit where it was due, at that warning Alistair rose quickly and began to help her pack. "What is it?" he asked. "I hope it not another dragon. I  _hate_  dragons, with the fire and the swooping. Especially the swooping."

 

"Don't worry about what it is!" Killeen snapped. "Worry about getting on the road!"

  
The snow was still falling as they stumbled out of the shelter of the cave and into the trees. Again, Fel carried one of their packs, Alistair two, Killeen burdened with the last as well as helping Cullen onward.

 

 _We_ _’ll have to discard as much as we can_ , she realised, _if we_ _’re to get any distance._ None of them could get far, in this weather, burdened as they were. 

  
She was unwilling, however, to stop and do so now, to linger any longer near the thin spot in the veil. 

 

"Fel," she panted, and the girl came closer. "Tell me when it's not thin any more, all right?" 

  
It was many weary steps further before the girl said, "I think this is far enough."

  
There was little shelter — Killeen lowered Cullen on the lee side of the largest rock she could find, flung her own cloak over him to keep him from chilling, and beckoned to the other two. "We have to get rid of everything we can," she said, "or we'll — "  _never make it_ , she thought, but then looked at Fel's sober face, and amended that. "We'll travel faster that way."

 

They emptied out their packs, left everything that could be spared — Killeen hesitated longest over Cullen’s arms and armour but in the end, the weight decided her. _He_ _’s in no shape to fight — it’s useless._ They crammed what was left in one pack, which Alistair shouldered and started onward again.

 

Alistair had been right: once they left the trees, there was no shelter to be had. And without it, in the steady fall of snow, the fierce wind, there was no-where to rest. To stop and sleep would be death. They plodded onward, step by weary step, Fel carrying Ser Calenhad, Killeen half-carrying Cullen.

 

The ache low in Killeen’s belly where she'd sprained or strained something when the dragon flung her aside began again, matching the burning strain in her back from holding Cullen up, mile after weary mile. 

 

 _How many miles_ , she wondered.  _How many more?_

She counted steps, with no other way to tell how far or fast they were travelling in the whirling whiteness all around, lost track around two hundred, and started again. Some unmeasurable time later she realised she had been muttering _one hundred and eighty four, one hundred and eighty five, one hundred and eight four_ for longer than she could calculate.

 

_One. Two. Three. Four._

Left, right. Left, right. _Left. Left. Left-right-left._

She tried a marching chant to steady her flagging pace and numb the pain of her frozen feet, the first one she’d ever learned as a trainee guard drilling beneath her sergeant’s watchful eye.  _In Kirkwall city, the girls are pretty, and they won_ _’t give you a slap, slap, slap! But heed my ditty, t’would be a pity, if from them you caught the clap, clap, clap!_

_In Kirkwall city, the girls are pretty_ _…_ she couldn’t keep to the beat with the snow dragging at her feet. _Something slower_ _… what was that song Norris was always singing on the road to Haven?_ At the time Killeen had through she’d never get it out of her head with its steady tramping rhythm at just the right pace for the long slow strides of day-long marches. _Something about the battle of Lothering?_

_As down the road one fine spring morn to a city fair strode I, where armoured lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by_ _…_

The next line eluded her and her pace faltered. _Left. Left. Left-right-left_ _…_

_In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame, did shine over lines of steel, and something-or-other-tum-te-tum oh Ferelden we be true, but when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew._

_Left. Right. I_ _’d bloody love to be fighting in dewdrops right now and not marching through snowdrifts. Those soft-handed rebels didn’t know when they were well off. Left. Right. Left._

_And the world did gaze, with something-aze, at those fearless men and few, who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew._

_Bore the fight and lost it. Left. Right. Left. Right. I suppose it_ _’s easier to make songs about people who are safely heroically dead and not embarrassingly drunk in Kirkwall Taverns, for example._

_When I get back to Skyhold, I_ _’ll damn well pay Maryden to write_ that _._

_Man killed a dragon. Saved Cullen_ _’s life, and probably mine, and possibly Fel’s._

_Deserves a song. Something you can march to. I_ _’ll make sure it’s sung all over Ferelden._

Ahead of her, Fel stumbled, got up, stumbled again. 

 

Kill halted. "Drop the pack," she croaked at Alistair. "Carry Fel."

 

"All our food —"

 

"If we don't get out of this, we'll die tonight," Killeen said, "and not have to worry about starving tomorrow. Here, hold him up for a moment." She handed Cullen over to Alistair to prop up and shrugged off her cloak, wrapping it around Fel and Ser Calenhad so the child wouldn't chill now she no longer had exertion to keep her warm. 

 

They managed a few more miles, but Killeen knew they were nearly finished. Alistair had shown more endurance and determination than she would have expected of him, bearing Fel on his back and ploughing through the snow ahead of her to break a path, but she herself was close to the end of her strength. 

 

As was Cullen ... he sagged again, went to one knee in the snow, and this time, when she hauled him up, he could not get his feet beneath him at all. 

  
Killeen took his arm, pulled him over her shoulder — careful to make sure the point of her shoulder didn’t press against his wound — and straightened, whole body aching with effort and cold. She knew she could carry him like this for a hundred yards, had done so in training exercises — but a hundred yards was not a thousand, was not a mile, two miles , however many miles to shelter.

  
She would carry him as far as she could.

  
Her back ached, her legs burned. _One step. Another. One more. One more after that._

 

 _Maker, I know You don't care_ , she thought.  _I know You've given up on us, Your children. Sometimes I honestly don't blame You._

_Only sometimes, Maker. The rest of the time, I think You_ _’re a bit of an arsehole. Because this is a good man, Maker. A man who serves You, loves You, in the way I never have._

_So You could make a bit of an effort for him, couldn_ _’t You?_

 

_I'm not asking You for very much, in the scheme of things. I mean, if You could stop the snow storm and make it Bloomingtide again, I wouldn't say no, but I'm not asking You to do that._

 

_Only, please, for a little strength. Just a little, just enough to carry him as far as I need to. I'll do the rest. I just need a little more strength._

_If You can_ _’t do that, for a man who has been Your faithful servant … then fuck You, Maker. With a splintery stick._

Another step. One more. One more after that.

 

_Andraste, Cullen says you love the Maker. Please, if you do, if you know what it is to love someone, to love them more than life, intercede with the Maker for this man I love._

_  
You know he still blushes when I tell him how beautiful he is?_

 

_He knows exactly how I take my tea, Andraste, I know it doesn't seem like an important thing, but it is. He knows exactly how I take my tea, he knows I always put my boots beneath the bed one arm's length down from the pillow and on nights when I'm too drunk to do it myself he puts them there so I can find them in the morning._

_  
He is a good, kind, man. I know there are many good, kind men in the world, but surely not so many that this one can be spared?_

 

_In certain lights his eyes are amber and in others, oak. He is strong and gentle and fierce and soft and I love him, I love him, Andraste, I love him._

_  
It took us forever to find each other and we have had only so few months ..._

_  
And I'm not asking for much. I'm just asking for a little strength. Just a little, a tiny little bit of strength._

One step. One more. One more …

 

A dark shape loomed out of the snow — solid, regular,  _man made_. 

  
O _h, thank you, Maker,_  she thought fervently.  _Thank you, Andraste._

_  
I hope Cullen's wrong and you really are at it like rabbits on the Golden Throne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Killeen remembers is an adaptation of 'The Foggy Dew', an Irish song about the Easter Rising of 1916.
> 
> I apologize to everyone for the extreme slowness of updates. I have had a very busy time at work, and haven't had time to even engage with comments, let alone write much. I haven't abandoned you, though!


	85. On The Road - Stanton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stanton has an unexpected encounter

_18th Harvestmere_  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Stanton slowed Firefly to a walk as a bend in the road brought a cluster of riders into sight.

 

He had had little trouble leaving Amaranthine. Uncle Cullen had replaced all the horses’ usual tack with well-worn and patched gear purchased from the markets and, apologising to Steelheart and Firefly as he’d done so, roughed up their glossy manes and tails and rubbed dust into their hides.

 

None of the gate-guards, nor anyone on the road, had looked closely enough at the lad with the two shabby horses to see the breeding and condition the dirt disguised.

 

Stanton had made good time once clear of the villages on the city’s outskirts. The weather held, clear and cold, and apart from the hazards of the morning frost he’d been able to keep to a faster pace than on their journey from Skyhold. He’d avoided stopping at inns or taverns, instead putting into practice the lessons he’d learned from his uncle and the Chargers and making camp a safe distance from the road.

 

It was cold, and, by himself, sometimes a little bit scary, knowing that if anything happened, he’d have to deal with it himself – knowing, too, every time he fell asleep that there was no-one to keep watch.

 

_Krem said I could do it_ , he reminded himself when necessary. _And he_ _’d know. And Uncle Cullen wouldn’t have trusted me with his horse, or Killeen’s, if he thought they’d come to harm or be stolen._

 

And there’d been few other travellers to worry about, at this time of year.

 

But now, ahead of him and rapidly approaching, a sizeable band. If they were hostilely inclined – Stanton glanced left and then right, looking for a place to take the horses off the road while the approaching riders passed. _There, a break in the hedgerows_ _…_

 

A young woman with a broad, pleasant face rose up from the grass in the gap he’d spotted, bow in hand, arrow held casually against the slack string. “Just wait easy, now,” she said. “No sudden moves.”

 

Stanton reined Firefly in, gathered Steelheart’s lead-rein, and waited. If they wanted to rob him, take the horses, there was nothing he could do about it, but try to make his way to Skyhold on foot, with whatever of his supplies they left to him. At least Dalish had shown him how to make a snare, and where to set it, and he knew how to start a fire with sticks. It would be a long walk – but Fel had set out on one nearly as long.

 

And if they were not robbers, but worse – Queen Anora’s soldiers – well, he knew what to say.

 

_I take a message_ , Stanton told himself _. A secret love letter, a shameful secret, but nothing else._

 

He lowered his eyes and studied the road in front of him, frost-rimed mud — glanced at the snub-nosed, freckle-faced woman with the bow and then away before she could think he was planning an escape and try to shoot him. Something about the easy confidence with which she stood make Stanton suspect that, should she try it, she’d succeed. 

 

The hoofbeats came closer, and slowed. Stanton kept his eyes on the road.

 

And then a voice he’d heard once before, a woman’s, light and clear. “Stanton, isn’t it?”

 

He looked up to meet the Inquisitor’s blue eyes.

 

“It _is_ Stanton,” she said, gestured, and all around people relaxed a little. She touched her heels to her mount, urged it a little closer to him. “What are you doing on the road, Stanton, with your uncle’s horse, and Firefly?”

 

“I have a message, worship,” he said. “For you, and you only.”

 

Her gaze sharpened, and suddenly, for all her beauty, Stanton thought how much she looked like Krem, like Killeen.

 

“Walk with me,” she said, and swung down from her horse.

 

Stanton dismounted, and took Firefly’s reins in one hand, Steelheart’s lead in the other.

 

“Harding will hold your horses,” the Inquisitor said, beckoning to the young woman who’d stopped Stanton leaving the road.

 

“Your worship,” Stanton said, not letting go of either. “My uncle entrusted them to me … neither is mine.”

 

She gave him a level look, and he wanted the ground to open and swallow him — and then she smiled. “And they are fine horses. I’m glad you take your uncle’s charge so seriously.  Will you allow _me_ to lead Steelheart, then?”

 

“Yes, your worship,” Stanton said, and yielded the lead rein to her.

 

She led Steelheart a little way up the road, away from the others, and Stanton followed with Firefly. “What is this message?” she asked when they were out of earshot.

 

Stanton closed his eyes, summoning up the exact words from memory. “The warden is looked for in Amaranthine — he has gone to sea — Nightingale’s birds sing more than one song.”

 

“And do you know what that means?” Lady Trevelyan asked.

 

“There were wanted placards with Alistair’s and likeness in Amaranthine. He took ship with Uncle Cullen to get out of the city, since they thought the roads would be watched. And my uncle thought that the only way the Queen would know Alistair was in Amaranthine was from the messages sent to Skyhold.”

 

“More than one song, indeed,” the Inquisitor said. “So Cullen and Alistair travel together – looking for Killeen?”

 

“Yes, your worship.”

 

“And sent you to tell me that Sister Nightingale is not the only one reading the reports addressed to her. Which means – your mother has no-one but Krem with her?”

 

“Yes, your worship,” Stanton said. “I mean, no, your worship. Just Krem – and Miss Jean, Lieutenant Killeen’s sister. And Thomas, her baby. Miss Jean’s baby.” He paused. “Your worship, may I ask – where are you –”  And then it occurred to him suddenly that it was almost certainly none of his business where the Inquisitor and her companions were travelling, and impertinent even to ask. He felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment, and ducked his head to study the toes of his boots. 

 

“Not to Amaranthine, unfortunately,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Stanton, you’ve given me your message, and to me only, as you ought to have – but now I am going to share it with those who also need to know.”

 

“Of course, your worship.”

 

“Please,” she said, pained. “Inquisitor, if you must. Lady Trevelyan or ser will also do. But ‘your worship’, never.”

 

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Stanton said hastily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

 

And, to his shock and horror and delight, the Inquisitor actually put her hand on his arm, steering him around to move back toward the rest of her party. “Stanton, if I didn’t know you were related to Cullen I’d guess. If you’ve something to apologise for, trust me, I’ll let you know.” She raised her voice. “Bull! Josie!”

 

The Iron Bull rode forward on his massive horse, the size and build of a draught-horse rather than a charger and, Stanton thought, probably the only kind capable of carrying the Qunari’s massive form. Along side him rode a slender woman with skin the colour of well-steeped tea, wrapped in a cloak brocaded in gold and amber.

 

When they were close enough, the Inquisitor said, “Josie, this is Cullen’s nephew, Stanton. Stanton, Josephine Montilyet. Stanton brings news. Cullen suspects our messages from Amaranthine have been shared with Anora.”

 

“Shit,” the Bull said.

 

"As a result, Alistair's left with Cullen — one step ahead of an arrest I suspect — and left Krem as the sole protection for Stanton’s mother and Killeen’s sister.”

 

“Amaranthine is a well-policed city,” Josephine said. She gave Stanton a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they’re entirely safe.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” the Inquisitor said. “I mislike having people who matter to me in places I can’t protect, however – and if we’ve one of Anora’s spies among _our_ spies in Amaranthine, I want to know about it. Bull, you’re heading back to Amaranthine. Take the Chargers, and Dorian.   Find out what you can, then collect our strays and take them to Skyhold. Oh, and take Sera with you – the Jennies might know something, or be able to find it out.”

 

“I don’t like it,” the Bull rumbled. “It’s not a good idea for you to be on the road as it is, Boss. Splitting our forces …”

 

“I told you, in fact I’ve told you several times, I’m not sitting in Skyhold waiting for the other shoe – or the sky – to fall. If they can’t get to me, they’ll get to someone I care about to winkle me out of my hole, and you know we can’t protect everyone. My family, irritating as they are? Josie’s? Our scouts? Master Dennett’s sons?”

 

The Bull grunted. “Playing bait is one thing if you have protection.”

 

“I’ve got three squads of soldiers, Scout Harding, Varric, and Blackwall, and I’m not unhandy in a fight myself, as you might have heard.”  

 

The Qunari did not look convinced. “Still a bad idea.”

 

“Maker’s fucking foreskin, Bull!” Lady Trevelyan snapped. “If they’re smart, they’ll pick a target we’ve overlooked, and force me out — and then I’ll be springing a trap on _their_ terms, with no choice. This way, it’s _my_ trap. Let them come, and Andraste take mercy on them, for I’ll have _none_.”

 

There was a long silence in which Stanton didn’t dare look at anyone.

 

“You always did play a mean hand of Wicked Grace,” the Bull rumbled after a moment.

 

“Josie beats me every time,” the Inquisitor said, and there was a smile in her voice, and, when Stanton dared steal a peek, on her face.

 

“Oh, and you think we don’t know you split the winnings?” the Bull said. “Fine. I won’t ask.” He reined his horse around. “Chargers! Change of plans!”

 

As he rode back toward the others, the Chargers separating out from the Inquisition soldiers and gathering around him, Stanton cleared his throat. “Your — Inquisitor. Ser. May I ask a question?” 

 

“You can always ask, Stanton,” Lady Trevelyan said. “I may not answer, however.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Stanton said. “Why — do you not trust the Iron Bull?”

 

Still leading Steelheart, the Inquisitor began to pick her way back across the frosty road to where her soldiers waited. “With my life,” she said, “and with the future of the Inquisition, which is somewhat more important.”

 

“ _That_ is a matter of opinion,” Lady Montilyet said, nudging her horse into motion to keep pace with them.

 

Lady Trevelyan gave the other woman a quick glance, a smile. “No, I trust him, Stanton, but he knows as well as anyone, everyone can be made to talk. I’m playing my cards very close to my chest for this hand for that very reason.”

 

“That’s good —” Stanton started, and then blushed at his presumption and stammered to a stop.

 

Lady Montilyet laughed and the Inquisitor said dryly, “I’m glad it meets with your approval.”

 

“Ser, I meant — if someone is selling information. Even if you didn’t know it, they wouldn’t —”

 

“Yes,” Lady Trevelyan said, “and another reason to keep things close. Stanton, do you want me to send you back to Amaranthine to your mother?”

 

“No!” Stanton said. “No, ser — unless that’s what you think is best.”

 

“It isn’t,” the Inquisitor said.  She stopped, and turned to face him. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes, ser!” Stanton said.

 

“Not just trust me to do my best, and all that,” she said seriously. “Do you trust my judgement the way a soldier trusts his sergeant? Do you trust me enough to do what I tell you, when I tell you, without hesitation, even if it doesn’t make sense? _Think_ before you answer.”

 

Stanton thought of the stories his uncle had told on the road, the ones the Chargers had shared: the Inquisitor risking her life to save the people of Haven, solving the succession crisis in Orlais, handing down judgements in the Great Hall that satisfied the aggrieved and furthered the interests of the Inquisition at the same time …

 

“I do, ser,” he said firmly. “What you ask, I will do, without question.”

 

“Good lad,” the Inquisitor said. She put her arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be dangerous … but I’ll have your back. If I didn’t, your mother and uncle would doubtless want my head.”

 

“I don’t mind danger, ser,” Stanton said. After all, had he not just ridden days and days alone through hostile territory with a crucial secret message?  “If it will help you … help the Inquisition, I’m ready.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	86. In The barn - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen makes the best of things.

_15th - 25th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

_Snow_ _… thick, swirling … clinging to his feet, every step an effort … the pain in his side worse, a stabbing point of heat in contrast to the cold everywhere around him … on his knees, the chill striking up through his breeches … and then up again, somehow, floating, jolting … a fist hammering on wood, the creak of hinges … smoke and warmth and a hard, solid floor beneath him._

_Voices._

  
“If you lend us your horse and cart,” Alistair was saying to someone, “you can have …”

 

He paused. Cullen listened, wondering what Alistair would offer. They had nothing that was not utterly necessary to their survival. He remembered Killeen giving the order to discard their packs, what was left of their supplies, somewhere in the vague haze of the past … _hours? Days?_

 

“You can have this fine sword,” Alistair said. Cullen heard the ringing sound of a blade being unsheathed and then the clang of metal being laid down on a hard surface.

 

“And what use do I have for that?” a strange voice scoffed. “Can’t cut trees with it, can I? And I’d not get much for it, shabby thing that it is.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Alistair said. “It’s worth more than it looks.”

 

“Not enough to get a new horse when you’ve took off with mine, as you’re likely to do.”

 

“Maker’s _balls_!” Killeen’s voice, ragged with strain. Another sword sliding clear of its scabbard, and Cullen struggled to open his eyes. _Killeen_ _’s sword is out … I should be beside her … guarding her blind spot, watching her back …_

 

Metal clattered on wood.  “Take that one then,” Killeen said. Cullen could imagine Harritt’s fine work, hilt set with its glowing enchanted jewel, blade glimmering like water in the firelight. “Until we bring your horse back, and silver to compensate for the inconvenience.”

 

A pause, and then, “All right.”

 

“And we’ll need shelter for the night, and food,” Killeen said.

 

“Shelter, you can have. There’s room in the stable. Food, I have none to spare.”

 

“Gold to compensate for the inconvenience,” Killeen said. “At least enough for the child, and our injured friend. A little.” And then, in a low, desperate tone he’d never heard from, her, begging,  “ _Please_.”

 

“A little, then,” was the answer. “But all I give you I’ll be short myself before spring.”

 

“Thank you,” Alistair said. “Really, we’re very grateful for your extraordinary hospitality.”

 

A gap, then, and he was moving, back in the cold, in the white, Killeen’s shoulder beneath his arm … gone again, for a while, until he drifted slowly up from dreams of _white, whirling white snow and stinging wind and one more step, one more, one more_ _…_ into still, quiet darkness.

 

He was warm, for the first time in what felt like forever, and that wasn’t right, that was, he knew confusedly, a very bad sign, just as it was very bad sign that he was lying down and not moving. In a particularly fierce storm the first week he and Killeen had arrived in Haven, he’d been making the rounds of the guard posts and found a man lying beneath a layer of snow. When Cullen had shaken him awake and dragged him to his feet, the man had protested, complaining that he’d been just resting for a moment in the warm …

 

It was an easy way to die, in the worst of the winter, to yield to weariness, to the temptation to rest, just for a moment, just for one moment …

 

_Have to get up. Have to keep moving._

 

Cullen opened his eyes.

 

It was still dark. _Night must have fallen_. He moved his hand, preparing to brace himself and roll over, and heard the rustle of leaves, felt their prickle beneath his palm.

 

Then he heard the low whicker of a horse, smelt manure and animal musk.  _Not leaves. Straw._

He was in a stable. The warmth he felt was real, not the hallucination of a freezing man. There was a warm weight pressed against his shoulder, the whisper of breath, a faint purring – he reached over, wincing at the pain in his side and chest, and touched tangled hair, a small head, the smooth pelt of a cat. _Fel and Ser Calenhad._

“Killeen?” he said softly.

 

Straw rustled on the other side of Fel, and he sensed rather than saw her sit up. “Cullen? How are you?”

 

“Much better,” he lied.

 

She slipped past Fel and knelt beside him, finding his shoulder and then brushing his forehead with her fingers. “You’re a little warm.”

 

“Which is a nice change.”

 

She laughed, no more than a breath. “I’m sorry about the accommodation. The owner isn’t very hospitable. The horse has been, though.”

 

“Come here,” he said, and managed to find her arm in the darkness, drawing her down to lie beside him. The movement hurt, and although she hardly touched him as she lay beside him, that hurt too.

 

_More than yesterday_ , he thought. _More than on the boat._

And Killeen was right — he was not just warm, he was too warm. There was a slight movement to the floor beneath him that couldn’t be real — his head felt oddly light, as if it might rise off the pillow of hay independent of his body. _Fever_ , he recognised.

 

_The wounds have turned._

 

It had been all but inevitable, but when the first day had passed, then the second, the third, he had allowed himself to hope — people _did_ survive such injuries, very occasionally, if they were lucky. Every day that did not bring the burning itch of wound-rot, the dreamy daze of fever, let him hope a little more that he would be one of them.

 

But he was not.

 

_How long?_ Days, likely —  certainly more than hours, certainly less than weeks. Bad days, days of pain and delirium — 

 

He regarded the prospect with a distant equanimity that he recognised as being, itself, a symptom of the fever that would eventually consume him.

 

“Where are we?” he asked Killeen quietly.

 

“A woodcutter’s cottage, a day or so’s travel from Val Royeaux,” she said. “And I’ve bought the wood-cutter’s horse and cart. We’ll get you to Vivienne, Cullen, as soon as the storm dies down.”

 

A day’s travel when the roads were clear, which they would not be. Unless the storm died down by morning … he would not make it to Vivienne.

 

He didn’t tell Killeen that. She had felt the fever in his skin; she most likely knew. “I knew you’d manage something,” he said at last. “I love you.”

 

“I bet you say that to all the women who carry you on their backs through blizzards,” Killeen said.

 

“I do, actually,” Cullen said, and she laughed a little. “And to no-one else.”

 

He felt her fingers trace his cheek. “Hold on,” she said softly. “Just a little longer.”

 

“Do I remember right?” Cullen said. “Did you trade your sword for a horse?”

 

She paused. “Yes. I — I thought about _taking_ it. I mean, that nug-humping-bastard, after all the Inquisition’s done for him, not to mention what common humanity demands … I could have run him through and _taken_ the Blighted horse.” She turned her head, pressed a kiss to the point of his shoulder. “He would have let us stagger out into the storm and die.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“It would have been murder. This isn’t a battlefield. He isn’t the enemy. He’s a selfish, stupid man, but if I kill him in order to take what he’s not willing to give … it would be murder.”

 

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

 

“So am I,” Killeen said softly. “I wish I hadn’t thought of it at all, though. I never would have, when … There was a time I never would have.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said.

 

She moved a little, raising her head as if to look at him in the dark. “For?”

 

“What you said in Kirkwall … about being a soldier. That’s — I did that to you, Killeen. I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t.”

 

“I’m not,” she said. “If you hadn’t taken me with you to the Inquisition, we’d never have seen each other again. We’d never had found our way to each other.” She paused. “And you’d never have managed without me, you know.”

 

He smiled. “I know,” he said. “I do know that.”

 

“Could you eat a little food?” Killeen asked. “It’s hard-tack and cheese, but –“

 

“No,” Cullen said. “Water, though.”

 

She rose to her feet, and he heard a little hiss of breath. “Killeen?”

 

“I pulled something,” she said. “On the island. Everything’s stiffening up, with the cold.” After a moment, she came back, and he felt her fingers on his cheek, then the cold lip of a cup at his mouth. The water was snow-melt, chill enough to make his teeth ache, but it slaked his thirst.

 

The cup empty, Killeen settled down beside him again. Cullen gritted his teeth against the pain and lifted his arm to circle her shoulders. “I love you,” he said again.

 

“Sleep,” she whispered, and he did.

 

The blizzard did not lift the next day. Cullen lay, in an increasing haze of fever, as Killeen fetched snow in a bucket to melt for their water, and Alistair braved the snow and cold to negotiate for a little more food from their reluctant host. Fel, her little face pinched with fatigue, wiped sweat from his brow with the corner of her shirt, apologising for having no more herbs, wishing him to _get better_ with such urgency that Cullen found his head clearing a little.

 

“You’ve taken good care of me, cubling,” he said, and Fel curled up beside him, Ser Calenhad perched on her hip.

 

“I’m sorry I went out on the deck,” she whispered. “If I hadn’t …”

 

“You were trying to help Ser Calenhad,” Cullen said. “Sometimes these things go wrong, cubling, but it’s not wrong to try and take care of someone who needs it.”

 

Fel sighed, buried her head against his shoulder, and went to sleep all of a sudden.

 

_Kittens_ , he thought, and smiled.

 

“Cullen?” Killeen said softly, and he realised he’d spoken aloud.

 

“Haven,” he said. “Remember? Always demons, you said. Never kittens falling from the sky.” He looked down at Ser Calenhad, kneading Fel’s cloak with tiny claws. “I think this kitten’s been more trouble than a pack of demons.”

 

Killeen gave the breath of a laugh. “I’d forgotten,” she said. “It was just … something to say.”

 

He found her hand, laced his fingers through hers. “You were right. I’d never have managed without you.  I don’t tell you that often enough.”

 

“You don’t have to,” she said calmly. “I already know.”

 

It was Cullen’s turn to laugh — and then gasp, as the movement sent pain lancing through his side. He closed his eyes, riding it out. _Not so bad. Not so bad. The worst days without lyrium were worse than this. This is not so bad._

 

The pain ebbed a little. He took a cautious breath and realised his grip on Killeen’s hand was bruisingly tight. He let her go. “Sorry.”

 

Her own fingers remained firm around his. “Dragons,” she said. Her voice was dry, and in the dimness he couldn’t make out her expression. “They say the Maker has a sense of humour but it’s a bloody peculiar one if you ask me.” She settled in beside him again, careful not to touch him. “Example the first, dragons. Example the second, nugs.”

 

“Example the third, quillbacks.”

 

“Exactly,” Killeen said.

 

It was strange and illogical, but that day, with the blizzard howling outside the walls of the stable,  was the best Cullen could remember in his life. Fel dozing beside him, occasionally waking and telling him, sleepily, about healing herbs and how she’d poisoned a dragon; Killeen, a dim silhouette against the light seeping through the cracks in the boards of the walls, testing every piece of harness in the stable, checking the horse for soundness, then settling beside him with her fingers laced through his; Alistair, trading dry jokes with Killeen and spinning extravagant stories for Fel …

 

_The last good day_ , Cullen thought, feeling the burn of wound-rot in his side, a little worse each hour. _The last good day_ _…_

_And it was perfect._

_The Maker_ _’s mercy is not always what’s asked for, but it is sure and certain._

He might, perhaps, have wished for the addition of some privacy, for one last opportunity to share his bed with Killeen, to marvel at the strong, clean lines of her body, to show her with hands and lips and tongue how much he wanted, needed, _loved_ , her …

 

But he did not, he knew, have the strength — and perhaps it was as well. _She will remember that last night in the Hawke Estate, both of us glad to be leaving Kirkwall, our differences settled for the moment, our troubles halved for being shared_ _…_

That was, by far, a better memory for her to carry.

 

By morning, the weather had cleared, at least a little.

 

Cullen watched Killeen lead the horse out to harness it to the cart, finding it hard to bring her into focus as the stable slid and spun around him.

 

When he was sure she was out of the door, he touched Fel’s shoulder. “Cubling, go and help Killeen” he said, and when she nodded and hurried off to do just that, he beckoned to Alistair.

 

Alistair knelt down beside him. “If this is where you tell me you’ve some doxie in Redcliffe or Crestwood, and will I take her a purse of gold if you don’t make it …I’m flat broke myself and I’d be lying if I said any money you trust me with won’t end up in the purse of the nearest tavern keeper.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “But I do need you to do a few things for me.”

 

 “I have a policy against promises, these days,” Alistair said.

 

Cullen reached up and grabbed the other man’s  arm, gritting his teeth against the pain the movement caused him. “You _will_ get them to Skyhold.”

 

“I was joking, man!” Alistair said. “You’ll make it to the healer.”

 

“Look at me,” Cullen said. “The wound turned days ago. Promise me you’ll get the two of them to Skyhold. Killeen takes damnable risks — don’t let her be reckless. Fel’s mother is at Redcliffe Castle, and I promised her I’d bring her to Skyhold when her babe was born.  Tell that to the Inquisitor, she’ll make sure it happens. Cassandra Pentaghast is likely to be the Inquisition’s next military Commander. She’ll want Killeen as her Second — and Killeen will agree. She’ll think she has to. Don’t let her.  Let her stop being a soldier.”

 

“Anything else?” Alistair asked. “Peace with the Tevinter Imperium? Draining the Fallow Mire?”

 

“My nephew, Stanton. He’ll want to go as a squire. Make sure it’s not to anyone who’ll teach him bad habits, or not teach him at all.  And my sister …”  A noise at the door – Killeen coming back.  “Tell her … I wish I’d written more often.”

 

“Hold on, man,” Alistair said softly and urgently. “We’re not done yet.”

 

“Promise me,” Cullen said, spinning away from him into a red-shot darkness. “Promise me.”

 

“Yes,” Alistair said angrily, and sighed. “I promise.”

 

 

 

 


	87. Beneath The Moon - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen does her best.

_25th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

It was slow going through the snow, and colder, without the exercise of walking to warm them. Killeen tugged Cullen’s cloak tighter around her shoulders as beside her Alistair shivered under the poor protection of his threadbare own.

 

She glanced back over her shoulder to where Cullen, Fel and Ser Calenhad all lay packed in the narrow confines of the back of the wagon, beneath _her_ cloak, the warmest of the three.

 

 “Fel? How is everyone?”

 

“Fine,” Fel said.

 

Cullen’s fever warmth was likely keeping all three of them warm beneath the cloak.

 

 _How far have we come?_ Hours into their journey, although it was hard to judge the time with the sun hidden behind iron grey winter clouds, and still, nothing in sight but the endless bare trees with their burden of snow. _Will we reach shelter before dark?_ They would likely not reach Val Royeaux until the next day, if then …

 

They had a little of the food from the woodcutter left. Killeen had been saving it in case Cullen should be well enough to eat, but she would share it between herself, Alistair, and Fel if he wasn’t. Riding rather than walking was burning their reserves of energy more slowly, but keeping warm in the deepening cold took its toll as well.

 

 _We_ _’re not making enough time_.

 

Killeen let the cloak slip from her shoulders. “Trade you,” she said to Alistair.

 

“Kind of you, but unchivalrous of me, I’m afraid,” Alistair said.

 

“I’m going to lead the horse. I’ll be moving. You should have the warmer cloak.”

 

They made better time for the next little while, through the afternoon and into the gloaming, taking it in turns to walk ahead of the horse and break through the deeper drifts, allowing the cart to move faster. It tired them both, but at least they both kept a little warmer, and there was the chance to rest on the driver’s box from time to time – Alistair more than Killeen, face whiter and more exhausted each time. _I may be out of condition,_ Killeen thought, looking at him _, but he_ _’s got ten years of ale and wine and brandy weighing him down._

 

The former Warden didn’t complain, but he was stumbling to his knees more often now, inanition and cold and fatigue taking their toll.

 

And they couldn’t stop. There was no shelter, no sign of one. They could try to build a fire, crawl underneath the wagon for warmth – but the horse couldn’t.

 

And fat flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

 

Killeen looked back over her shoulder again. “Fel?” she said. “Cullen?”

 

No answer from Cullen, and Fel only stirred a little, sleepily. _Too sleepily._ She turned to reach down to them, ignoring the twinge of pulled muscle in her gut, shook Fel a little until the girl roused. She pulled off one glove and touched the girl’s cheek, finding it chill, then Cullen’s .

 

 _Maker_ , _he_ _’s burning alive._ His face was flushed, beaded with sweat, yet he shivered, and when he opened his eyes at her touch they were glazed and held no recognition.

 

She swung down from the driver’s box and slogged forward through the snow to Alistair. “Get in the back,” she said to him, taking the horse’s halter. “Fel’s chilled, and Cullen … he’s not doing well.  Keep them awake, keep them warm. ”

 

“You do it,” Alistair said. “I’ll lead the horse.”

 

“You can’t,” Killeen said bluntly. “Not for long. You’re not strong enough. Get in the back of the wagon and keep Cullen and Fel alive.”

 

A pause, and she thought he was going to argue, ego trumping logic – and then he nodded, and went to do as she said.

 

The snow fell steadily, but quietly, for a while, as the day waned. Killeen led the horse by the head-strap of its halter, able to see less and less of the way ahead of them, but relying on the thick forest on either side of them to keep her on course.

 

Until she reached a fork in the road.

 

There was a signpost, weathered and worn, sagging a little, a dusting of snow along its top. Killeen peered up at it, trying to make out the directions in the fading light.  _Val Royeaux_ _… well, it’s Val-something … now if only I could tell which road it pointed to_ …

 

She chose the one it was closest too, which was also the widest.

 

The snow stopped. The moon came out, almost full, illuminating the path ahead and the woods around with a bright opalescent glow. Killeen plodded on, not daring to let the horse stop to go back and check on the others in the cart, step by wearing step, aching with cold, the strained muscle in her gut cramping and protesting. After a while, she had no sense of how long she’d been walking, no idea how far … lost all sense that this journey had a beginning and an end, knew only one step, another step, white all around, cold, white, one step, one more step …

 

They were making better time on this wider road than they had before. As the stars wheeled slowly overhead and the moon tracked across the sky, Killeen began to hope that another few minutes would bring them to Val Royeaux. Another few minutes, surely … they were making better time, and it was only a day’s journey, so surely, another few minutes …

 

And yet there was no break in the woods, no sign of habitation, none of the clusters of buildings that always sprang up on the roads around cities, inns and hostelries, the little groups of houses for tradesmen and craftsmen who supplied the city but could not afford to live there – nothing but the trees, the white, bright snow, the starts, the moon, the road …

 

 _It was the wrong road_ , she realised.

 

It was too late to go back. They would have almost all the night’s travel to retrace and then perhaps as far again at least to reach help and shelter.   And this road was well kept, in places her feet crunched over gravel beneath the now, and it must lead somewhere, and in not so very long …

 

Another few minutes. Another few minutes, and a few minutes after those … the world narrowed to the few feet of snow ahead of her, time narrowed down to a step, another step, one more step …

 

Suddenly, she realised that she was walking over clean, crushed gravel, swept clear of snow. She looked up. Gates ahead, massive, iron, set in a tall stone wall. Beyond the gates, faint lights, many of them – a great house, windows blazing. _A country estate._

_People. Servants, guards, even if the noble this belongs to has retreated to Val Royeaux for the season._

 She led the horse on a few more stumbling steps, fell against the cold iron bars, clinging to them to stay upright.

 

“Hey!” she shouted, tried to – her voice was a shred of a croak. “Hey!”

 

 _Maker, I_ _’ve got us here,_ she thought. _I fought a fucking dragon with a boot-knife. I crossed from the Storm Coast to Orlais in a ship_ _’s boat. I carried Cullen on my back through a blizzard. I’ve walked all day and half the night in snow up to my knees to get him to help._

_I have done my part, Maker._

_Now do yours. Make them hear me. Do you understand? **Make them hear me.**_

__

She cleared her throat, coughed dry, cold air, swallowed hard. “Hello the gate house!” she yelled.

 

A door banged. Lanterns, held high – shapes, voices, on the other side of the gate.

 

“State your business,” one of them said.

 

“I’ve got a wounded man in the cart, a child – we need shelter. Food.”

 

No-one moved to open the gate. “And who would you be, then?” asked her questioner.

 

“The Inquisition,” Killeen said, aware she little looked the part.  “Open this fucking gate before we freeze!”

 

“Easy to say,” one of the gate guards said. “Emile, run up to the main house and tell Captain Faure we’ve strangers at the gate. The rest of you, stations, look lively!”

 

“Ser!” said a vaguely familiar voice,  and one of the Guards turned toward the house.

 

Something in the way he moved – Killeen placed the voice, one of Ryland’s men, Orlesian, always homesick, who’d taken a place with the Divine Victoria for the opportunity to return to friends and family and familiar places. “Emile?” she called to him, and he stopped. “Emile Travere, am I right?”

 

“Yes, ser,” he said.

 

“How’s the eye, Emile?” Killeen asked. “That stye ever clear up? And that girl you were courting – what was her name, began with ‘P’, didn’t it?”

 

“Prisquina,” Emile said. “”My wife.” He came closer. “Maker’s breath! Lieutenant Killeen?”

 

“The very same,” Killeen said. “And Commander Cullen’s in the cart, and he’s hurt, Emile, hurt badly.”

 

“She’s who she says she is, ser,” Emile said to his sergeant.  “I know her. From Skyhold.”

 

“Trust her?” the sergeant asked.

 

“With my life,” Emile said.

 

“Open the gate!”

 

The gates creaked back. Killeen led the horse forward. Shapes around her now, helping, but she hung onto the head-stall anyway, needing it to keep her feet now.

 

Emile was beside her, his hand under her elbow. Killeen swallowed, trying to summon enough spit to moisten her mouth enough to speak. “Is Lady Victoria – Madame de Fer – Maker’s balls, Divine Vivianne de Fer Victoria! Is she here?”

 

“Yes, ser,” he said.

 

“Get her. Please, Emile, hurry. Cullen’s … hurry.”

 

He nodded, and ran on ahead. Without his support, Killeen nearly fell, the grinding cramp in her gut growing worse with each step.

 

Up the drive, to the steps of the house, doors opening, people running down — hands lifting Cullen out of the wagon.

 

"Gently!" she admonished. They began to bear him up toward the house – Killeen began to follow, remembered Fel as Alistair tried to pick up the little girl, shaking with cold himself.

 

“Give her to me,” Killeen said, accepted the weight, carried Fel up the stairs and into the warmth of the house.

 

They had laid Cullen on the floor, and he was no longer flushed with fever, restless with it – he was white and still, _too late_ , Killeen thought numbly, _all that and too late, too late, too late_ _…_

But Vivienne was there, sweeping down the grant staircase, taller than ever in the headgear of the Divine, and she was bending over Cullen and the look on her face was, as far as Killeen could judge, not sorrow or regret but one of professional, intent calculation –

 

Vivienne laid a hand on Cullen’s chest and there was a flicker of green –

 

A little colour came back to his face. Killeen saw his chest rise and fall.

 

She looked down at Fel cradled in her arms, still and white and cold, stumbled a step forward and fell to her knees. Alistair had mounted the steps behind her and was just too slow to catch and support her.

 

“And who do we have here?” Vivienne asked, sweeping toward them.

 

“Al—”  Killeen paused. Somewhere beneath the numbing cold and ache of exhaustion she remembered Alistair saying something about _an arrest warrant_. “Alexander. And —” she held the girl out. “Fel. Help her. Please.”

 

Vivienne took Fel from her with surprisingly strong arms, looked down at the girl. “She will be well,” she said.

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said. She made an effort, got to one knee, heaved herself to her feet –

 

Crashed forward into darkness.

 

 


	88. In the Palace - Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia is surprised.

_14th - 25th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

Mia spent the next week and a bit in one room.

 

It was a comfortable room, not as luxurious as the Hawke Estate, but, still, it had rugs on the floor and a fire in the grate.

 

 _And bars on the windows_ , Mia thought, walking Thomas up and down.

 

He was out of sorts, and Mia couldn’t blame him. _I_ _’m out of sorts myself._

 

Being a … _well, a hostage, I suppose,_ was a new experience for her and not one she was enjoying.

 

 _Better than the carriage, anyway_.

 

She turned as the door opened, to see another of the silent servants who brought her meals and clean clouts for Thomas, and emptied the commode when necessary.

 

“I’d like some water, to wash,” she said to the solidly built woman whose head-scarf shaded her face. “Hot, please.”

 

“If you want,” said Krem, closing the door behind him, “but I thought you’d prefer an escape plan.”

 

_Krem! But how — and what — and —_

_Later_ , Mia told herself as Krem reached under his dress and produced another headscarf like his own, and an apron such as the one he wore. Immediately grasping his plan, Mia laid Thomas on the bed and donned the disguise, such as it was. “What about Thomas?” she whispered.

 

Krem picked the baby up and laid him on the rug by the fire. “Strip the bed,” he said. “It’s laundry day.”

 

Quickly, they pulled the sheets from the bed and bundled them together, Thomas in the middle of them.

 

“If we’re stopped, what do I say?” Mia asked.

 

“Just keep your head down,” Krem said. “I’ll do the talking.”

 

“But —” Mia paused. “They’ll know you’re a man.”

 

He gave her a quick grin. “I doubt it,” he said.

 

In fact, as they made their way down the corridor, both with humbly bent heads as befitted their assumed-servant status, Mia thought that if she hadn’t known Krem was a man she wouldn’t have guessed. _He_ _’s even padded his chest with something!_ Well, he had worked for a spy — he was no doubt an expert at disguises.

 

They reached a staircase, a closed door. _What now?_ Mia thought frantically, looking around. A wizened servant pushed a mop across the floor nearby, pausing to mop her forehead with a faded red kerchief.

 

“Jenny says hello,” Krem said to her.

 

The woman ignored him, pushing her mop almost across his feet — Mia caught a glint of metal left behind and Krem stooped and picked up a key.

 

He unlocked the door, and Mia followed him through, the bundle of laundry and baby still carried between them.

 

“Who’s Jenny?” she asked as they made their way down the stairs.

 

“Depends,” Krem said with a grin.

 

Mia wanted to stop dead and say _Stop pissing me about,_ but they were in the middle of escaping from the Queen of Ferelden, so perhaps it wasn’t the time.

 

The stairs let them out into a large room with a multitude of doors leading off from it. The proportions seemed fairly familiar, and Mia realised that it was the same size as the Queen’s Hall. _This must be underneath it_ , she thought, _the shadow Hall where all the ordinary people who keep the Queen_ _’s Palace running go about their business._ She had no experience with the work needed to keep a great house running, but from what she could see, it was not so very different from her own household tasks. _Only on a far grander scale_ , she thought, watching four boys carrying a platter which groaned with the weight of an entire pig past a woman stirring a cauldron of soup that could have fed her own family for a week.

 

 _Almost a week_ , she amended, thinking of Stanton’s increasing adolescent appetite. 

Mia followed Krem’s lead and they headed across the room toward a door on the other side of the hall.  They’d hardly reached half-way when a couple of soldiers stepped in front of them. “Where are you going with that?”

 

“Laundry, sers,” Krem said, and Mia realised that in a dress, the mercenary’s light, even voice sounded very much like a woman’s — _perhaps a woman with a sore throat, but a woman, nonetheless._

“Laundry’s back that way,” one of the soldiers said.

 

Mia kept her eyes down, staring at the bundle of sheets between them. _Squirming sheets_ , she realised, as Thomas began to get restive in his confinement. She joggled them as unobtrusively as she could, trying to look as if she were merely fidgeting.

 

“Thank you, ser,” Krem said meekly. “Got meself all turned around.”

 

They turned and began to make their way back across the hall. “Now what?” Mia whispered.

 

“I’m thinking,” Krem muttered back.

 

“Do you know what’s through that door, the one we’re supposed to go to?”

 

“Kitchen gardens, back gate.”

 

Mia paused, pretending to stretch a kink from her back, and glanced around. _Cookpots, spits, baskets of vegetables, buckets of scraps_ _…_ As they reached the laundry door, Mia detoured slightly, snared one of the scrap buckets, and carried it through the door.

 

A skinny girl was stirring a steaming copper of laundry. She looked up sharply as they came in. “Wrong door!” she hissed.

 

“We got stopped,” Krem said shortly.

 

Mia put the laundry and the scrap bucket down, and untangled Thomas from the sheets as the girl said desperately, “You can’t stay here! The mistress’ll be back any minute!”

 

“We won’t,” Mia said. Thomas propped on her hip, she tipped the scraps onto the sheets and then placed him in the bucket. “Help me cover him up,” she said to Krem. “Don’t cover his face.”

 

The mercenary was quick to catch on, and together they scooped the kitchen scraps back into the bucket until the only thing that could be seen of Thomas was his mouth and nose. Fortunately, he seemed to consider it a great game, especially when he found a carrot-end to chew on.

 

Between them, they lifted the bucket. “Pretend it’s heavy enough to need both of us,” Krem said, and Mia nodded, and stooped a bit.

 

Back out into the hall, the laundry maid frantically bundling the sheets away, and across, once more heading for the kitchen gardens and, Mia fervently hoped, freedom.

 

This time no-one stopped them, and in a few moments they were standing in the small walled gardens. “Now what?” Mia asked.

 

“Psst!” a voice said. “Up here, thickies!”

 

Mia looked up to see a blonde elf perched on the wall. _Sera_ , she recognised, _one of the Inquisitor_ _’s companions from Skyhold._

_The one with the tongue_.

 

“We can’t fly, Sera!” Krem said.

 

She grinned smugly and pointed to a bundle beside her, then with a flourish undid it and tossed down the end of a rope ladder.

 

“I can’t climb that!” Mia said in horror.

 

“Yes you can,” Krem said calmly. He picked Thomas out of the bucket of scraps and brushed potato peelings from his hair.

 

 _Oh, flames!_ Gingerly, Mia took hold of the ladder. She held to the rungs, and put first one foot, then the next, on the lowest rung, then quickly put one back down on solid ground as the ladder swayed alarmingly.

 

“One hand, one foot,” Krem said behind her.

 

“I don’t think I can do,” Mia said. “You go, take Thomas. I’ll … hide, somehow. Pretend I’m a servant.”

 

“So all those stories the Commander told us about his tomboy sister were lies?” Krem said.

 

“That was years ago!” Mia protested weakly, but she stepped onto the ladder with both feet again, clinging tightly as it moved with her movement.

 

“One hand at a time. Let go with your right hand,” Krem said. Mia closed her eyes tightly and did so. “Now reach up to the next rung and take hold. Good. Now put your weight on the right foot and step up with your left. That’s it. Now lift yourself up — good.”

 

Mia was absolutely certain she could never have done it without Krem’s calm voice telling her at each moment exactly what to do, but, after several minutes of terror, she reached up for the next rung and felt her wrist gripped firmly by a small, strong hand.

 

“Up you come!” Sera said, hauling her the rest of the way until Mia was on the top of the wall. “If you know what I mean. Shit, that wasn’t a very good one, was it? I should have thought harder.”

 

Mia lay on her stomach on the top of the wall, trying not to look down on either side, as Krem yanked off his headscarf, fashioned a sling, and quickly climbed the ladder with Thomas strapped to his chest. “Now what?” he said as his head and shoulders  appeared at the top.

 

“Now’s the fun bit!” Sera said, and gestured to the street below.

 

Mia looked down, but she couldn’t see any ladder, any way to get down: just an empty alleyway with a cart of manure no doubt destined for the kitchen garden.

 

“Whee!” Sera said, and jumped into the cart, giggling all the way down.

 

“Oh, Andraste’s mercy,” Mia gulped.

 

“It’s all right,” Sera called up, climbing out of the cart. “Stinks a bit but it’s lovely and soft!”

 

“Krem, I —” Mia started to say.

 

The rest of the sentence disappeared into a yelp as Krem pushed her off the top of the wall.

 

The manure _was_ soft and, Mia thought as she crawled shaking over the tailgate of the cart, it certainly _did_ stink. She brushed ineffectually at the lumps in her hair and on her clothes as Krem followed them down, landing on his back with Thomas cradled protectively in his arms.

 

Sera beckoned them to a doorway.  “In here, right?” the elf said. “Get yourselves changed and cleaned up.”

 

It was a warehouse of some sort, filled with barrels and crates, but it also had two buckets of water, and clean clothes for both of them. Mia pulled off her apron and headcloth as Krem carefully set Thomas down on the floor and began to strip off his own disguise.

 

She hesitated, fingers on the buttons of her dress. _Don_ _’t be foolish_ , she chided herself, _this is no time for modesty._ Glancing over at Krem to make sure he wasn’t looking, she —

 

Stopped dead.

 

Krem had stripped the dress he’d been wearing and was in the act of pulling a shirt over his head —

 

Only the naked body was unmistakably a woman’s, breasts, curve of the hips —

 

Krem yanked the shirt down and for a second Mia saw the disconcerting sight of the familiar man’s face on a woman’s body —

 

He — _she, he, she —_ pulled the shirt all the way down and met her gaze. “If you’ve something to say, say it.”

 

“I —” Mia paused. “Can’t women be soldiers in Tevinter?”

 

“They can,” Krem said. “I’m not a woman, though.”

 

“But you’re —” Something in his — _her, his—_ eyes stopped her. “Forgive me,” Mia said. “I was startled, and forgot my manners.” She turned her back, mind whirling with confusion, and took off her own dress, using the water in the nearest bucket to wash her hands and face before pulling on the clean one.

 

“Everyone decent?” Sera asked, slipping in through the door without waiting for an answer.

 

“What’s the situation?” Krem asked, pulling on his breeches. “I take it Anora’s letter reached Skyhold — but how did you get here so fast?”

 

“Didn’t come from Skyhold, did we?” Sera said. “Quizzy had us off on some secret Inky business, secret even from us, and then we stumbled on a boy on the road with a message — he’d be yours, yeah?”

 

“Stanton,” Mia said. “Was he all right?”

 

“Right as rain,” Sera said. “Anyway, Quizzy sent me and the big guy and the rest of them to pick you two up from Amaranthine but when we got there, you weren’t there to be picked up. Nice work with the chess set, by the way, Krem. Clued us in proper.”

 

“Chess set?” Krem asked, puzzled.

 

“It was me,” Mia said. “I left the white queen where someone might find it.”

 

“Not just a pretty face, are you?” Sera said. “Well, we did find it, and from there it wasn’t much work to find out they’d sent you to Denerim, so here we are. And that frozen-faced bitch’s servants _hate_ her, so a word in the right ear, a coin in the right hand, and here you are.” She shrugged. “Rocky’s selling vegetables in the market. We’ll ride out in his cart. The rest of them are outside of the city a little way, the big guy being all conspicuous and stuff.”

 

“And Stanton?”

 

“With Quizzy,” Sera said. “Don’t worry, mum. She’ll take care of him. What did An-whora want with you, anyway?”

 

“To trade us,” Krem said, pulling on his boots. “For someone she thinks the Inquisitor has.”

 

Sera gave a great peal of laughter. “Oh, right, then. Going to blackmail our Quizzy into doing something she doesn’t want to. I’m almost sorry I rescued you, now.”

 

“Why?” Mia asked.

 

“Because _that_ slapdown?” Sera grinned. “Couldn’t print tickets fast enough.”

 

 


	89. At The Estate - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen wakes up

_25th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

Killeen drifted, wrapped in soothing green-tinged warmth, hearing voices talking above her. Her belly ached with the low fierce cramp that had been plaguing her, off and on, since the dragon had flung her across the beach.

 

A hand touched her there, a voice murmured, and the pain eased and then ceased.

 

“Sleep now,” Vivienne said softly. “You will both be well.”

 

_Both._ She had not been too late. Cullen was not … Tears of relief leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Fel?” she croaked.

 

“All is well, with all of you,” Vivienne said, surprisingly gently for the woman who had earned the name Madame de Fer. “Sleep.”

 

Killeen did.

 

Woke, suddenly and completely, in a still room hushed by the muffling snow outside the window. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the bed beneath her was soft, the furs around her warm. She stretched, luxuriating in a feeling of well-being such as she had not felt for what seemed like months, and tossed back the furs, going in search of firstly the chamberpot and secondly, some clothes.

 

Her armour and cloak were hung on a stand in the corner of the room, boots set beside them, but everything else she’d been wearing was missing. _Probably burned_ , Killeen thought, _considering the state of it._ She opened the armoire against the wall and found a row of sparking, shimmering gowns. _Worse than useless. I_ _’d look like a pig in a bonnet in those_. Eventually, delving through drawers, she found breeches – a far finer quality wool than she’d ever worn, and a tighter fit, too. _Clearly made for someone who hasn_ _’t just spent weeks sitting on an island feasting on nug_ , Killeen thought, lacing them as best she could and finding a fine lawn shirt to pull on. She pulled on her boots, contemplated the armour … it went against the grain to leave it off and so she shrugged into the coat and buckled it.

 

She reached automatically for her sword-belt, remembering only as she felt its unaccustomedly light weight that she had no sword for the scabbard. _Void take that woodcutter_ …

 

But without the horse and cart, Cullen would have died.

 

She could not regret the trade.

 

_I_ _’ll get it back._

There were three doors in the room. One revealed a corridor, one the commode — one another room much like her own, rich rugs on the floor, a warm fire in the hearth, a bed.

 

By the fire, curled in a heap, Fel and Ser Calenhad. In the bed …

 

_My beautiful, darling man._

Killeen leaned against the bedpost and looked at him, feeling as if she would never have enough of seeing him sleeping quietly, the flush of health and not of fever on his cheeks, his hair gone to a riot of curls and unfamiliar days worth of beard golden on his cheeks and chin.

How long she stood there, she wasn’t sure, only that she was still standing, heart overflowing with a contentment so intense it seemed impossible to bear, when he opened his eyes, and saw her, and smiled.

 

And then looking wasn’t enough, and she came around the bed to sit beside him, tugging her fingers through his curls and bending to kiss him. His arms slid around her and he drew her down to lie beside him.

 

“How are you?” she asked quietly, not wanting to wake Fel. _In a minute, yes_ _… but this, this moment, is mine, only mine._

 

“Well, I think,” Cullen said. He drew down the furs that covered him, revealing pink, new scars, but no wounds. “Or else, this is what being gathered to the Maker’s side is like.”

 

“Don’t joke,” Killeen said, burying her face against his shoulder.

 

“ _That_ _’s_ something I’ve never heard you say before,” Cullen teased gently.

 

“I thought you _were_ going to die,” Killeen said, starting to shake.  “When we got here … I thought you had. In the cart, without me knowing.”

 

“Killeen, it’s all right,” Cullen said. “I’m all right.”

 

“I know,” she said, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

 

“I think perhaps I did die, a little,” Cullen said after a moment.  “I remember seeing the Maker’s throne.”

 

“Don’t talk like that,” Killeen said against his shoulder.

 

“And there were four Chantry sisters there,” Cullen went on. “The Maker said to the first one, you’ve led a good and pure life, and you will spend eternity by my side, but first you must tell me, have you ever, ah, had any contact with a man’s private parts?”

 

The laugh surprised her, tearing out of her throat painfully, and the next moment, tears followed it.

 

Cullen gathered her to him. “It’s all right, Kill. Killeen. It’s all right.”

 

“D-don’t you fight any m-more dragons without armour!”

 

“I won’t if you won’t,” Cullen said reasonably.

 

“I d-don’t fucking plan to!” she snapped.

 

“I didn’t plan it that time, either,” Cullen said. “If it came down on us in the boat, I didn’t want to be trying to swim in my breastplate.”

 

“You should have stayed on the ship,” Killeen said.

 

“And left you and Fel alone on the island with that beast?” Cullen said. “Would you have, if it had been me?”

 

“Of course not,” Killeen said. “That’s different.” When he laughed, she sat up a little, glaring at him. “It is! _I_ can take care of myself!”

 

That only made him laugh harder, and she couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her beautiful, glorious man well and hale and happy. “You are impossible, Killeen Hanmount,” he said.

 

“So are you.”

 

“We’re a pair, then,” he said, and sobered a little, gazing at her. He reached out to cup her cheek and for a moment she thought he was going to speak — but instead he leaned up to kiss her, which was an entirely sufficient substitution.

 

“Kill?” Fel said from behind her, and Killeen pulled free and turned. “Are you all right?”

 

“I am,” Killeen assured her. “And Cullen is, too.”

 

Fel nodded. “Lady Divine Victoria de Fer made him better, she told me this morning. Oh! She said I had to give you messages.” She closed her eyes and recited, “Cullen is to rest and follow the instructions of the healers. I have matters in Val Royeaux to attend to and will not return for three days. If I find he has been exerting himself in my absence, I will be displeased. The house and staff are at your disposal.” She opened her eyes. “And I’m supposed to watch and tell her if you’re bad, Ser Bear. And I will, too!”

 

“Such loyalty,” Cullen said, smiling, “from my own squire.”

 

Fel gave him a steady stare. “You were really sick. Like, _really_. And if Lady Divine Victoria says you need to rest, then you’re going to rest. And I don’t care if you send me home for it, you can’t until you’re better anyway and then it won’t matter.” Her lip trembled, and she lifted her chin defiantly.

 

“Come here,” Killeen said, opening her arms, and when Fel set Ser Calenhad down and crossed to her, she wrapped her arms around the girl and lifted her onto the bed between Cullen and herself. “Nobody is sending you home, or anywhere, do you understand? And I don’t care what Cullen says, you’re absolutely right to make sure he follows the orders of his healer.” She looked at Cullen over the top of Fel’s head.

 

He put his hand on the girl’s back and rubbed it gently. “Killeen’s right. I was teasing you, and I shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t send you home.”

 

“Good,” Fel said. “Because I don’t want to go.”

 

“Then you shan’t,” Cullen said. “You shan’t be sent anywhere you don’t want.”

 

Fel scrubbed her face with the palms of her hands, sniffed, and sat up. “Why does Lady Victoria think Alistair is called Alexander?”

 

“Did you tell her he wasn’t?” Killeen asked.

 

“Of course not!” Fel said scornfully. “But why?”

 

Killeen chose her words carefully. “There are some people who want to hurt him, and even if we trust the Divine Victoria, you never know might overhear something. And even not meaning any harm, say something where they shouldn’t.”

 

“All right,” Fel said, the matter, apparently, settled to her satisfaction.

 

“Now, you stay here with Cullen,” Killeen said, “and make sure he does as he’s told.”

 

“Where will you be?” Fel asked.

 

“I,” Killeen said, letting Fel go and standing up, “have to see a man about a sword.”

 

Her stomach growled as she went out into the corridor, reminding her that she should probably see the kitchens about breakfast first. She collected her cloak, and went to do just that.

 

The house was huge — even larger than she’d thought when they’d arrived, with two grand wings sweeping back and around the sides. She prowled long corridors for what felt like hours before the smell of baking drew her to the right place — where the presence of the Divine Victoria’s guest in the kitchens promptly induced near-hysteria on the part of the cooks and scullery-hands.

 

Killeen firmly resisted their attempts to hustle her out to a more appropriate location where food would be brought for her, snared a handful of rolls, and set out to find the guards’ quarters.

 

After only a few false turns, she located the barracks. The guards, being guards, were considerably less scandalised by her presence than the kitchen staff had been, and when she asked for Emile, she was offered tea while he was fetched.

 

Killeen perched herself by the stove, inhaled the steam from her tea, and swapped stories with the off-duty men and women until Emile arrived.

 

“I need a favour,” she said. “That horse we came in with — he’s borrowed, from a woodcutter. I left my sword as surety for his return, and I’d dearly like it back.” Emile nodded. “But I’m not keen on the idea of braving that weather alone, or of walking back.”

 

“Well,” Emile said. “The Divine left orders that you should have what you asked for. If you’re asking for an escort, and a spare mount …”

 

“I am,” Killeen said, surprised at how easy it was.

 

The trip was easy, too, since — _and I really should have foreseen that_ — Lady Vivienne employed more than a few mages, and two of them accompanied their small company, melting the snow ahead of them and leaving the road clean and clear. It took less than a full day to travel back to the woodcutter’s cottage.

 

The woodcutter was there.

 

Her sword was not.

 

His story was that he’d been robbed, but from the shiftiness to his gaze, Killeen guessed it was more likely he’d simply sold the sword to someone. She considered beating the information out of him …

 

_No_. Not while she was the Divine’s guest, accompanied by the Divine’s guards. No, if she were going to employ some of Kirkwall’s more rough-and-ready habits to obtain the information, she would have to come back, later, alone … by which time her sword would be Maker-knew-where, sold on to Maker-knew-who.

 

She sighed, and accepted that it was gone. _Master Harritt will make me a new one_ , she told herself, but it didn’t help. It would not be the sword that Cullen had commissioned for her, that stood as both a symbol of his love for her and of his recognition that she was never going to accept being kept out of danger, not be the sword that said, every time her hand closed on the hilt, _I love you, entirely and absolutely as you are_  … no, it would just be _a_ sword, not _her_ sword.

 

But the trade she had made meant Cullen still lived to love her, entirely and absolutely as she was.

 

_A good bargain, were it twice as dear_ , she thought as they made camp for the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've had more time to write this week, I'm posting faster. Please reward me with feedbacky goodness! *shamelessly pleading eyes*


	90. In The Library - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen has several conversations.

_25th - 26th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

When Cullen opened his eyes to see Killeen leaning against the post of his bed, cheeks and nose a little pink with snow-burn, he discovered himself unsurprised.

 

 _Of course,_ he thought as he gathered her in his arms, hazy memories of the Divine Victoria’s dark, intent face swimming up through the confusion of last night’s fever, _of course she managed it._

The fever was gone, and as Cullen drew Killeen down to rest against his side, he realised the pain was gone too. His side showed pink, new scars, and he was a weak as a kitten, _well, as weak as a kitten who isn_ _’t Ser Calenhad_ , but it was only the almost-pleasant languor of convalescence, not the draining fatigue of illness.

 

He would have liked to have done more than kiss Killeen, as she choked and wept against his shoulder, as she obstinately refused to see that there might be any commonality between the risks he’d run and the ones she so regularly did, but there was Fel, sleeping by the fire, to consider, even if his own exhaustion had not presented a barrier.

 

As Killeen kissed him again, and left on an errand of her own, he closed his eyes. _There will be other times_ , he thought, as sure of it as of anything in his life. _There will be all the times of our lives to come, and they will be long lives, surely — she survived the Waking Sea, and I have lived through a mortal wound._

_If that isn_ _’t a sign from the Maker that we’re destined to live long, long lives, I don’t know what is._

 

Cullen slept most of the first day of Killeen’s absence, waking to eat when servants brought food to him — discovering himself to be ravenous.  He recognised the need of a healing body for sustenance — and, when he found his eyes closing moments after he laid down the spoon, for rest.

 

The urgency of contacting the Inquisitor, for so long second place to first Killeen’s survival, and then his own, began to return, but not in sufficient strength to overcome the exhaustion of a body healed unnaturally and too fast — and one drained by days of desperate illness.

 

He woke again to moonlight outside the window, candles burning soft and bright … voices by the hearth.

 

“You can, though,” Cole’s light, colourless voice was saying. “She’s not like the others. She’s like me.”

 

“But you’re like _me_ ,” Fel said.

 

“I haven’t always been,” Cole said.

 

Cullen raised himself on his elbows. “Cole?” _Where have you been?_

“I’m sorry,” Cole said, unfolding himself from his crouch by the fire and coming to perch on the edge of the bed.  “I couldn’t come before. I heard you, _close enough to touch but not to grasp and falling, falling into the icy sea._ I couldn’t come in time.”

 

“It’s all right,” Cullen said. Killeen and Fel were alive and safe and so, by the Maker’s grace and the Divine Victoria’s intervention, was he. In that knowledge, he was more than willing to forgive anyone for anything. “What were you two talking about?”

 

“I was explaining to Fel that I came from the Fade,” Cole said. “It’s why Vivienne calls me a demon. But I’m not. Not everything in the Fade wants to hurt. Some want to help.”

 

“Do you think she’s old enough for that sort of discussion?” Cullen asked Cole, making it clear by his tone that the answer should be _No_.

 

“She floated across the Waking Sea and poisoned a dragon. She’s old enough for a lot of things,” Cole said.

 

 _That is,_ Cullen had to admit, _hard to argue with._ “What are you doing here, anyway, Cole? Has the Divine changed her opinion of you?”

 

“No,” Cole said. He tucked one foot beneath him and rested his chin on his knee. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

 

 _Oh, wonderful._ Vivienne would doubtless blame him, or Killeen, for Cole’s presence. She had tolerated him at Skyhold on the Inquisitor’s insistence: Cullen was not convinced her tolerance would extend to her own estate, nor be invoked as easily by the Inquisitor’s military commander as by the Inquisitor herself.

 

“She won’t know,” Cole assured him. “And I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

 

Cullen closed his eyes. It was a problem for tomorrow.

 

Tomorrow brought an absence of Cole, or at least, an absence of visible Cole. It also brought a visit from a healer who pronounced Cullen well enough to leave his bed — so long as he avoided anything strenuous, and didn’t stay up for too long.

 

He rose and dressed, finding his knees shaky enough to confirm the wisdom of the healer’s strictures, and sent Fel on a mission to find him a razor from somewhere in the estate. 

 

Satisfied that Fel was safe and well and, for the moment at least, fully occupied and in no mischief, Cullen went in search of Alistair.

 

It took some time. He had to stop more than once to rest, and was about to give it up as a bad job when he opened a door and discovered the Divine Victoria’s extensive library.

 

Alistair sat at one of the great oaken reading tables – but he was not reading.

 

He was staring at a bottle which sat on the table in front of him. Cullen could see the seal was intact.

 

He stepped inside the library and closed the door silently behind him. “That’s not a good idea,” he said quietly.

 

Alistair started, looked up at him. “Oh, it seems like a terribly good idea to me!” he said brightly. “That’s why I’m a washed up ex- _everything_ in the alleys of Kirkwall, doncha know? Because it’s such a good idea!”

 

“I don’t mean drinking that,” Cullen said. “I know you know that’s a bad idea. I mean … testing yourself.”

 

And he was right, he could see it in Alistair’s face. “Is that what I’m doing?” the man asked.

 

“Yes. Seeing if you’re strong enough to see it, think about it, even smell it,” Cullen said. “Listening to the little voice that tells you it’s inevitable, sooner or later, so why not sooner? Why put yourself through it when you’ll fail in the end?”

 

Alistair took a shaky breath, tried a smile. “You sound like you know more about it than the Commander of the Inquisition should.”

 

“For me, it was lyrium,” Cullen said. “Is lyrium. Perhaps always will be lyrium. So I know, sitting here like this with the bottle in front of you, is not a good idea.” He reached for it. “May I?”

 

Alistair reached as well, instinctively – then drew his hand back and nodded.

 

Cullen took the bottle, found a cupboard with a door and put it inside, closing it.

 

“When did you stop?” Alistair asked. “Lyrium?”

 

“The first time?” Cullen asked, sinking into the chair opposite Alistair. “Or the second? Or the third? Or the times I told myself I’d take less, even if I couldn’t stop altogether? Or the times I told myself just once in a while? Or –”

 

“The _last_ time,” Alistair interrupted.

 

“A year ago,” Cullen said.

 

“How?”

 

“I had help. A Seeker. And — I had something I would have lost, eventually, if I hadn’t.”

 

“Killeen,” Alistair said. “She would have left you.”

 

"No," Cullen said, "but I would have lost her, all the same. And other things.”

 

“ _My_ Killeen …” Alistair said, and stopped.

 

"The other things were a chance to recover my self-respect, a chance to look at myself in the mirror without hating the man I saw there. Those, you can still have.”

 

A long silence. “If she hadn’t died …”

 

“If she hadn’t died. If you hadn’t left. If Loghain hadn’t kept his troops back . We are where we are.”

 

“If every bloody thing that could go wrong hadn’t gone wrong, do you mean?” Alistair said. “Easy for you to say. What would you do if something happened to Killeen?”

 

“I’d feel like a limb had been amputated,” Cullen said steadily, “for the rest of my life. But I wouldn’t take lyrium again.”

 

“How can you be so sure?” Alistair asked.

 

“Because if memory was all I had of her, I’d not risk losing a second of it — even if those memories brought pain.”

 

_Dyer's Alley ... the courtyard with the three wells ... but which streets between the two? Cullen tries to hold the map of Kirkwall in his head but it shivers and wavers, his thoughts muddled and slow. Does Weaver's Lane run parallel to Brick Street all the way, or does it turn off and ..._

_People are in danger, are dying, and he can't think, can't focus, can't do his duty as a Templar —_

_He yanks open the drawer in his desk, takes out the bottle and drains it._

_A second or two — or longer, perhaps, he has never been able to tell — of sweet, blessed, blue nothing, nothing but the song racing through his blood and soothing every ragged nerve, filling him with strength and calm, filling him so entirely there is no room for memories of Kinloch or of what has happened since, no room for anything, even himself, only the song, the song ..._

_  
The world snaps into clear, blue-limned focus. Kirkwall's winding alleys and streets are clear in his mind. Without hesitation, he sends two Templar squads to the south end of Brick Street, one to Blue Well Square, another to the junction of Weaver's Lane and Smith Street. They will trap the apostates between them, containing them and then controlling them._

_"What about Aveline?" Killeen asks._

_The Guard-Captain and those she commands will be be left exposed, it's true — but ordering the Templars headed for Blue Well Square to detour will take time, and if she's worthy of her command, Aveline will be able to hold her position without heavy losses. Cullen says as much to Killeen, has already forgotten the consideration as he strides out the door._

_It takes longer than it should to clear the streets: even now, nearly three years after Meredeth's madness was finally, horribly revealed,after the truth of what had happened in the Gallows for so long, to so many, was exposed for all to see and for no-one, anymore, to be able to ignore — the Templars of Kirkwall are well below full strength and those who are there are demoralised, undisciplined despite all Cullen's efforts._

_Still, he himself is strong and sure, could almost take this little nest of maleficars single-handed. He draws on the song again and again, muffling their magic. By the time the last apostate is bound and helpless, being hauled away to the Gallows for trial, there is only the faintest flicker of lyrium left in his blood, like a half-heard humming in another room, and he begins to feel the bruises from the blows he's taken, the blasts of magic that got past his shield. The maleficars should be tried at once, which means weary hours ahead in the Hall of Judgement — and Maker, he's already beginning to feel the exhaustion of ebbing adrenaline weighing him down like a second, heavier, suit of armour.  The others can be in no better case — and if one of the apostates tries to fight, even manages to get free ..._

_  
There is nothing for it but to request another dose from the Quartermaster. It's far from unheard of, when circumstances demand more from the Templars than mortal flesh can supply, although it isn't encouraged, either.  Two in one day isn't excessive, given the situation he finds himself in, even if he does take more, these days, than he used to before his foolish, useless effort to wean himself down to a lower dose._

_The Quartermaster makes no demur, simply hands him the bottle. Cullen is tempted to take it then and there, and it is force of habit rather than his former, foolish qualms at being observed which sends him to his office first. And if he is almost running by the time he reaches the corridor which leads to his quarters, well, there is a need for haste, to be ready for the prosecutions ahead, is there not?_

_He shuts the door behind him and —_

_And it flies open again, hard enough to bounce off the wall, handle scoring the plaster.  Killeen Hanmount catches it on the rebound, steps inside and slams it behind her forcefully enough to make a book on the shelf fall over. She glares at him, breathing hard, fists clenched, a splash of blood on one cheek and a hastily-wrapped bandage around her right arm._

_  
Cullen pockets the bottle quickly, although he's not entirely sure why. "You're hurt," he says. "Were you in the fighting?"_

_  
"Shut. Up." Her knuckles are white, her face beneath the blood and grime of battle is set. "Andraste's arsehole, Cullen! What the fuck is wrong with you? Of course I was in the fighting. You left my Captain hung out to fucking dry, did you think I was going to shrug and say oh well and go back to barracks?"_

_  
Aveline, and the decision he'd made — had forgotten making, until now. It was the logical, efficient use of the resources he had left to him ... and yet, now, it no longer feels as clear-cut as it had at the time. "Is she ..."_

_"Alive? Yes," Killeen said. "There's a woman in Arloff's squad who'll never walk again, however, and half a dozen others who'll be a long time in the infirmary."_

_  
"I'm sorry," Cullen says. "Under the circumstances I had no —_ _”_ choice _, he is about to say._

_Kill takes him by the collar of his cloak and shoves him back against the wall, every bruise he has protesting. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she asks again, face inches from his, and he closes his eyes rather than see the pain and puzzlement in hers._

_One day, the pain in her face will not hurt the way it does at this moment._

_One day, he will not even remember that it ever_ did _hurt._

_And one day, perhaps one day soon, he will not care that this woman has saved his life and, though she doesn't know it, from time to time his sanity. He will not care that she can find a joke to crack even peril so dire others are white-faced and pissing themselves in fear; he will not care that she knows every nug joke ever told and several which, he is sure, she made up herself. He will not care that her eyes change colour depending on the light or that she can, on her better days, stretch him further in the training ring than anyone else. He will not care that her mother is a hypochondriac on behalf of everyone else in the family, according to Killeen's dry accounts of her letters, that she has a sister called Jean whose skirt is over her head more than it's around her ankles, that Killeen sends almost all her pay home to them._

_He will not care, and then, one day, he will not even remember. It will be like they never met; it will be like she never existed._

_There is so much he has, for so long, wanted nothing more than to forget. If losing everything else was to be the price of that, well, he would pay it, even if that meant that one day, the letters from South Reach would be addressed in  a hand he no longer recognised, signed with a name that meant nothing to him._

_But losing this, losing the memory of the only real friendship he has had since every single one of his friends died at Kinloch —_

_He has been silent so long that Killeen snorts in disgust, lets him go with one final shove, turns on her heel and stalks toward the door._

_The bottle is in his pocket. When she leaves, he will take it._

_He forces the words out. "Kill, wait."_

“You say that now,” Alistair said.

 

“I’ve thought I’d lost her more than once,” Cullen said. “But I know it’s not really comparable. After all, you only lose Solona for a few hours, don’t you? Eventually you sober up enough, sleep it off for long enough, to remember — until you open the next bottle or order the next jug.”

 

“And why this is any of your business,” Alistair said, “I’m entirely puzzled. But then, Morrigan would say that I’m easily puzzled … that _has_ been a bonus of the last ten years, no Morrigan.”

 

Cullen touched his side, feeling the new lines of raised scar-tissue through his shirt, the glancing memory of pain. “You saved my life, and Killeen’s.”  

 

Alistair shrugged. “Anyone would have done the same.”

 

“No,” Cullen said. “Not anyone. Any hero, perhaps. That makes twice, you know. I remember enough of the Circle Tower to remember that you saved me then, too, you and Solona and Leliana. Perhaps I think that makes you my business — perhaps I think I should return the favour.”

 

“And if I don’t consider it a favour?”

 

“You followed Killeen into Darktown. You came back to Ferelden. You got into that boat with me. And the seal on that bottle was untouched.”

 

Alistair sighed, and leaned his head back against his chair, closing his eyes. “It’s not going to work, you know. Today, perhaps tomorrow … but it’s not going to work.”

 

“And if that’s the case, it’s easier not to try?” Cullen asked, and Alistair opened his eyes and gave him a weary, wry smile. “I hear people thought two junior Grey Wardens had no hope of stopping the Blight, either. And I’m quite sure that people were certain that reviving the Inquisition to end the Mage Templar war was a fool’s errand. Not to mention closing the hole in the sky. And —”

 

“Point taken,” Alistair said.

 

“Good,” Cullen said. “And now — I’m afraid I have another favour to ask.” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way back to the guest rooms, would you? I’m completely lost.”

Alistair laughed, and got up. “Ah,” he said, “heroing on that scale I can _definitely_ manage.”


	91. In The Woods II - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen rides, and thinks.

_26th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

Killeen was eager to get back to the Divine’s estate, back to Cullen, but the weather was not good enough to push the horses.  Their slow pace chafed at her nerves, even though she knew Cullen was safe, and well, that Fel was …

 

_I nearly lost them both_.

 

For the first time, Cullen’s infuriating reluctance to accept that she would be going back into the duty roster, and that that roster might mean danger, made sense all the way down to her bones. _Oh, I_ _’ve seen him in danger — even, for a few moments, thought him dead — but_ this _… watching him sinking, hour by hour, knowing there was nothing I could do, only to go on, hopelessly to go on …_

 

One thing, to be fighting for your life by someone’s side, knowing that a mistake on your part or on theirs would kill you both … quite another to stand helpless while a life ebbed away before your eyes.

 

_Or stand duty at your post while someone you love draws their sword in the shadow of death._

 

Back in Kirkwall, he’d said _I_ _’m in command, Killeen. It will be my decision. And … I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. Not again._

She’d had no patience with him, then, but now …

 

_It will never work. Not his fault, or mine — but it will never work. I could never give that order to him — and he_ _’ll never be able to give it to me._

_It will never work._

It should have made her angry, made her burn with frustration, to know she’d have to lay aside her duties and responsibilities to the Inquisition, that she couldn’t have both the job and the man she loved —

 

Instead she felt an unexpected wave of relief.

_I will have to stop being a soldier_ , she thought. _I will have to find something else to do with my life_.

 

_Thank the Maker._

_But what?_

 

Nothing that would take her away from Skyhold, that was set in stone. _And nothing that will give Cullen an excuse to saddle me with the lion_ _’s share of child-rearing duties, either_. _I_ _’d go mad stuck behind some desk, anyway, sitting on my backside dealing with personnel reports or something, all the shit parts of being Cullen’s second without the interesting bits or even the occasional head-butting._

 

_I could go into training, but they_ _’d have to sack someone to make room._  

 

_And what_ _’s Cullen going to do with all those merchants and pilgrims and travellers and would-be-recruits crowding the place without me to calm ruffled feathers and kick those backsides as deserve it? With nothing but soldiers who’ve never been anything_ but _soldiers to keep order?_

_He_ _’s not as bad as he used to be, but he still does tend to shout first and ask questions later. Which works, on soldiers, but tends to make civilians resentful._

Not as bad as he used to be … memory took her by surprise, cold as the snowflakes on her cheeks.

 

_Cullen yanks open a drawer in his desk, takes out a small blue bottle and drains it._

_  
His hand falls heavily to his side and the lines of strain vanish from his face, not gradually but all at once. He closes his eyes, leans against the edge of the table, his breathing thick and slow. Killeen looks away, embarrassed for him. This is too intimate for friends, too intimate for_ anyone _, Andraste_ _’s tits, she’d feel less awkward if she’d walked in on him with his breeches down and his cock in his hand. At least that she’d had some experience with, living in barracks, but_ this _, whatever it is_ _…_

_And then he is speaking again, voice clear and cool, sending squads to Brick Street, to Blue Well Square, to Weaver_ _’s Lane._

_"What about Aveline?" Killeen asks._

_"If she's as competent as she should be, the losses should be light," Cullen says. Killeen gapes at him._

_And he turns and strides away._

Maker's balls.  _She runs, full pelt, passing him on the stairs without pausing for so much as a glance — through the streets and up to Hightown, to the Keep — grabs the rope and rings the alarm bell with all her strength._ Arm-and-out, _the rhythm says._ Arm-and-out! 

_Guards spill out out their barracks, struggling into their armour. There are those there who outrank her, or who have seniority of years, but Killeen has no patience with the niceties of protocol, no more than Aveline herself would in an emergency. She issues orders, assigns squads, and her certainty is so absolute that even Lieutenants nod and do as they're told._

_Hard fighting in the streets, then, to reach the Guard Captain — not against mages, but against the people defending them, people who will never again trust a Templar's promise that no harm will come to the mageborn, people willing to risk abominations breaking out or their own death on a Guard's or Templar's sword to protect family, friends.  It's what the Gallows has brought them to, in Kirkwall, and all Cullen's work for the past few years —  the trials, the punishments for those Templars found guilty of abuses, the compensation to victims or the families of victims, and the constant, steady work of what is left of the Templar order side by side with the Guard as Kirkwall struggles to rebuild — all that can be swept away in an instant when word comes that the Templars are coming for a mage._

_Killeen finishes the battle with a gash in her arm that will need stitches and the memory of a friend being carried away to the infirmary._

_  
_ Light losses, _she thinks, and fury and betrayal blaze through her like fire through straw._

_  
She goes, not to the infirmary, but to the Gallows, sees Cullen ahead of her on the stairs and calls his name. Her voice is loud, her tone sharp enough to turn heads._

_He ignores her._

_She is planning to yell at him, not hit him, but when he starts to tell her he had_ no choice  _something snaps inside her head. She sees red, hears a roaring in her ears and slams him against the wall and demands again to know_ what the fuck is wrong with you _._

_  
He doesn_ _’t raise a hand in his defence. He closes his eyes, turns his face from hers._

_Says nothing. Not a single word._

_  
As if he owes her, after everything, not even an explanation, let alone an apology, as if he owes her after everything not even one word, not even to look her in the eye._

_He's been distant and cool for a while now, which she'd put down to the strain the state of Kirkwall put on all of them, but most especially on Cullen and Aveline._

_  
But perhaps it hasn't been. Perhaps this — whatever_ this _is, this sometimes friendship on his part and half love-affair on hers — perhaps he wants it over, wants it gone._

_Wants_ her _gone._

_  
And that hurts, Maker's balls, it hurts, although she doesn't know if she wants any more to be friends with or in love with a man who'd let what happened to Aveline's troops occur._

Fine _. Killeen turns to go before the tears of fury and grief can begin to fall._

_  
Stops, as he says, low and hoarse,_ _“Kill, wait.”_

_  
She waits, without turning to look at him, waits to hear what he has to say for himself, and then, when he says nothing further, turns, ready to let him really let him have it._

_He is sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, fingers driven deep into what is usually a careful coiffure, every muscle in his body rigid with strain._

_  
__“What_ is _wrong with you?_ _” Killeen asks, a quiet, genuine question, because there is no doubt in her mind that she is looking at a man in some sort of terrible pain._

_He gives a half-gasp of bitter laughter._ _“Too many things to know where to start.”_

_  
_ _“Are you ill?”_

_“An — old complaint,” he says, and she realises he refers to one of the periodic recurring fevers that plague the marshlands, illnesses she has been lucky enough to avoid herself._

_  
_ _“Do you need me to fetch a healer? A surgeon?”_

_Cullen shakes his head._ _“No. Kill — today. It was an error of judgement. I have no excuse.” Very soft. “Forgive me.”_

_  
Hitching a hip on the edge of his desk, she looks down at him._ _“Don't do it again.”_

_“Never,” he promises fervently._

_“All right, then,” she says, and startled, he looks up at her, his expression so open and unguarded and almost_ longing _that she feels the touch of his gaze all the way down to her gut. Maker, he looks so tired, so_ beaten _._ _“You should rest.”_

_“I can't. The apostates today — some were captured. The trials must be seen to.”_

_  
_ _“Tonight?”_

_  
_ _“They'll be made Tranquil,” Cullen explains quietly. “There's no question of their guilt. It's cruel to leave them waiting on it. At least when it's done — they won't suffer further.”_

_“Then let someone else —”_

_“No, Kill. It's my responsibility.” And_ there _he is, the man she loves, the man who'll take on that burden even exhausted as he is, because it's_ his _responsibility, because it would be cruel to make them wait even a few hours while he slept._ _“Will you stay?” he asks her softly._

_She is startled._ _“Me?”_

_“I don't want to —” He falls silent, looks away. She hears the unsaid words._ Face this alone.

_“Yes,” she says, although her arm is starting to throb. “Yes, I'll stay.”_

_  
And so she is in the Hall, off to the side, leaning against the wall, as the mages are brought in, one by one, their crimes enumerated, the danger they pose elaborated, the sentence passed — and carried out. Some are stoic, some dignified — some hysterical, or raging._

_Afterwards, though, they are all the same. Tranquil._

_It is necessary, Killeen knows. What happened in the Gallows under Meredith's rule was abhorrent, but this, this is the necessary prevention of Abominations or maleficar._

_Still, she feels sick at the sight of all those blank, smooth faces, the brand on their forehead, and by the time it is over she is sweating, breathing hard through her mouth to keep her stomach from rebelling._

_Cullen, too, looks on the verge of vomiting when the last of the mages is left away and he makes his way over to her._

_“I need some air,” Killeen says, and he nods._

_“Me too. I’ll walk you back to the Keep.” He pauses. “I have an errand on the way, first.”_

_The errand is, apparently, with the Quartermaster: Cullen gives the woman something Killeen can_ _’t see, then turns back to Killeen and jerks his head toward the door._

_The sea air, foul as it is near the harbour, settles Killeen_ _’s stomach a little, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Cullen. Even in the intermittent light of the torches set at intervals along the long walkway, she can see he’s a ghastly shade, sweat glistening on his face._

_“Lean over the —”_ balustrade _, she is going to say, but it_ _’s too late. Cullen bends double, retching, not like a man who’s had more to drink than he’s capable of holding but painful, convulsive spasms as if there’s something lodged inside him that he’s trying to expel. He goes to his hands and knees, heaving and choking._

_Killeen kneels beside him. He tries to turn away from her, but she_ _’s having none of it, braces his head with one hand on his clammy forehead, puts her other arm around his shoulders._

_In the end, he brings up nothing more than a little bile, and she wonders how long it is since he_ _’s eaten as she helps him sit up. He makes no effort to stand, leaning back against the balustrade, accepting her flask to rinse his mouth and then resting his head against the rail, eyes closed._

_As she sits down beside him, shoulder against his, Killeen thinks that he looks exhausted beyond measure, looks as if inside his Templar armour he is carrying some hidden, mortal injury._

_“Sorry,” he says at last, voice hoarse with the force of his retching._

_“At least you missed my boots,” she says.  The sound he makes could be mistaken for a whimper, but Killeen takes it as a laugh. “If I’d known you were —” she starts, stops. “I’ll help you back.”_

_“No,” he says immediately. “No, I’ll walk you to the Keep.”_

_“Cullen, you’re in no shape to walk anywhere.”_

_His voice is so soft that at first she_ _’s not sure she’s heard him correctly. “Not the Gallows. Not tonight, Kill._ Please _._ _”_

_“All right,” she says, and pulls his arm over her shoulders. “Come on.”_

_He steadies a little on the walk back up to the Keep, but the light of the sconces shows him still deathly pale. He refuses to go to the infirmary, though, when she suggests it._ And I can hardly take him into my barracks _._

_“Wait here,” she says, and props him against the wall in the corridor to go and make sure the single private place in the Keep — that those below Lieutenant rank have access to, anyway — isn’t occupied by a couple of Guards coupling._

_It isn_ _’t, which is lucky, because sometimes there’s even a queue._

_She treks back down through the corridors to fetch Cullen and finds him talking to a stranger, a tall woman with close-cropped dark hair and armour in a style Killeen doesn_ _’t recognise._

_“Think about it, Knight-Commander,” the woman says._

_Cullen_ _’s face is beaded with sweat and he is breathing the short, shallow breaths of a man whose stomach is in incipient danger of rebelling, but he nods. “This is not — a good time, Lady Cassandra. Perhaps tomorrow …”_

_When the woman leaves, Killeen manages to get him halfway to the Guard_ _’s bolt-hole before another spasm of nausea leaves him shaking and barely able to get his feet under him. She all but carries him the rest of the way, lowers him to the thin pallet on the floor, figures he’s too far gone to notice the stains and have an attack of Templar prudishness._

_“Who was that woman?” she asks him as he sags back, eyes closing. “Lady Cassandra?”_

_“I don’t know,” he says vaguely, and Killeen isn’t sure he’s even heard or understood the question. “She … I don’t know.”_

_“Are you sure you don’t need a medic? We don’t run to mage healing here these days, but …”_

 

_He shakes his head, the slightest motion back and forth without raising it from the pallet._ _“Just to rest.”_

_She is about to say_ I’ll let you get some sleep, then _. Her arm is bleeding again, not badly, but the throb and burn of it is becoming a steady misery and she wants an elfroot potion and a poultice._

_Her lips have parted on the words when Cullen opens his eyes again and it_ _’s there once more, that look of utter vulnerability, as if he is quite simply too exhausted to keep his guard up anymore._

_“Rest, then,” she finds herself saying instead. “I’ll be here.”_

 

That had been _as bad as he used to be_ , that had been, Maker, she could see it now, the cool, clinical distance she had taken for the pressure of his duties, had feared was a growing distaste for her company … _lyrium._

_It made certain things easier, yes,_ he’d admitted to her in Kirkwall. _Lyrium gives Templars their powers, makes them more than merely human — until it makes them less than human._

_It was already changing me._

And she had almost walked away from him, had almost abandoned him to fight alone his desperate, losing battle to be a better man than his circumstances allowed.

 

_Never again,_ she swore to herself, feeling snowflakes kiss her cheeks like frozen tears. _Never again, my darling, my beautiful man, will you ever have to face that struggle on your own._  

 


	92. In The Sitting Room - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen is reunited with an old friend - or two.

 

 

_27th - 28th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

Cullen woke suddenly, disoriented — there was no familiar play of stars and moonlight through the leaves of the tree edging its way through his roof, just a blank, dark ceiling closing him in, pressing down —

 

The he remembered. _Vivienne — her estate — the guest rooms_.

 

He rolled over, hoping that Killeen had returned and not woken him, or that it was the sound of her opening the door that had disturbed his sleep — but the bed, and the room, was empty, silent except for the faint crackle of the dying fire on the hearth.

 

Slipping out of bed, he pulled on shirt and breeches, then padded barefoot across the room to open the door that led to the other rooms in this extensive guest suite. Fel was sleeping soundly, Ser Calenhad sprawled across her stomach. The kitten raised his head and gave Cullen a level stare, then rolled over and, with a yawn, went back to sleep himself.

 

A sound from outside the windows made Cullen turn. _Voices. That must be what woke me_.

 

_Killeen must be back._

He crossed to the window and pushed back the thick curtains. Frost rimed the glass and obscured his view. Cullen breathed on the glass and then pressed his hand flat to it, until the heat had melted a small clear patch. He peered through it.

 

Below him, the courtyard was lit half by the silver grey of the full moon on snow, and half by lanterns and torches borne high by dozens of figures — some mounted, some on foot. Not, Cullen judged, Killeen and the escort of Vivienne’s personal guard who had gone with her — not only were there too many of them, more than three squadrons if he counted rightly, but there was far less order than he would expect from travellers returning to a familiar place. No, these visitors were being given directions, instructions, having the stables pointed out to them, and —

 

He frowned. _That horse looks like Steelheart_ _’s twin_. _Dennet said we had all of his herd that were worth the trip — and Steelheart is one of the finest. Where would they have found_ _…?_

 

And then he saw the bay mare, neck proudly arched, treading disdainfully behind the young man leading her, the long line of her flank marred by a tracery of scars, and knew that it _was_ Steelheart he saw, because that _was_ unquestionably Firefly, and the young man with her had just pushed back the hood of his cloak to show fair hair —

 

Pulling on his boots, Cullen grabbed his own cloak and hurried out.

 

He had gained some familiarity with the corridors, enough to find the stairs and then to make his way down them and toward the front doors.  They opened as he approached them, and the regal form of the Divine Victoria swept through. Although Cullen could see, through the doors, snowflakes swirling in the torchlight  in the courtyard, no snow had dared to settle on Vivienne’s robes, nor on the towering head-dress of the Divine. 

 

“I do hope the healers have approved your perambulations, Commander,” Vivienne said, seeing him.

 

“They have —” Cullen said, and then was cut off when Lady Trevelyan dashed past Vivienne and raced across the foyer to embrace him. “Inquisitor — what are you —”

 

“Andraste’s tits, what are you doing _here_?” she demanded.

 

“Seeking shelter from the cold,” Cullen said, and the Inquisitor shook her head.

 

“Vivienne already said you turned up on the doorstep three-quarters frozen and comprehensively gored. I don’t mean, what are you doing in this house, I mean, what in the Maker’s name are you doing in _Orlais_?”

 

“The currents of the Waking Sea are a law unto themselves,” Cullen said. “We came ashore — I’m not exactly sure where, but on the Orlesian coast.”

 

“And what did you pick a fight with —”

 

“Not that I’m not glad to see Curly,” Varric’s familiar gravelly voice said from the doorway, “but do you think we could skip the _previously, dear readers_ bit until I’ve at least partly thawed?”

 

“I’ll second that,” Blackwall said, following the dwarf inside and stamping snow from his boots. “Maker’s balls, I don’t remember a winter this bad this early since the time the Miroir de la Mere froze over in Wintermarch.”

 

“Then you do not remember a winter this bad,” Vivienne said, “as there is already a crust of ice along the shoreline. There will be skating by Satinalia.”

 

“What fun!” Lady Montilyet said cheerfully, shaking snow from her fur muff.

 

Vivienne gestured to a servant. “Mulled wine and hot tea for my guests in my private sitting room.” She glanced at the Inquisitor. “And _glac_ _é petits fours._ ”

“Little cakes,” Lady Montilyet translated helpfully for the Inquisitor, whose eyes brightened.

“This way,” Vivienne said. “And do try to be careful, Blackwall. This is not a barracks, or a stable. Some of these carpets are worth more than you are. _Some_ are even worth more than Varric.”

 

“Any of them worth more than you?” Blackwall asked, although Cullen noticed he placed his feet carefully as they all followed Vivienne down the wide corridor leading off the foyer.

 

“Not possible, darling,” Vivienne said. A door opened as she approached it, and Cullen wondered if she had used magic, or if the house was filled with servants whose sole job was to scurry around to reach her destination before her, open the doors and scurry away unseen.

 

_Or both_ , he thought. _Madame de Fer leaves nothing to chance_.

 

The sitting room was, of course, exquisite. Thick carpets covered the floors, wall-hangings in a dazzling array of colours and stitching so fine they looked painted kept in the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth, and the furniture had that look of elegant simplicity that no doubt came with a price sufficient to keep an ordinary family for a year.

 

“Where is Kill?” Lady Trevelyan asked, flinging herself down in the chair nearest the fire and stretching her feet out toward it. “Vivienne said you found her, that is right, isn’t it? Oh — I sent Bull and Sera to make sure Mia got safely home.”

 

“Thank you. And yes, I found Killeen,” Cullen hastened to assure her. Not being chilled by travelling in the bitter weather, he stayed back from the hearth,  allowing the others the benefit of its heat. “She’s on an errand — she left her sword as security for the loan of a horse and cart, and she’s gone to get it back.”  He fell silent, remembering that night in the stable, feeling the fever rising in his blood … the long hours that followed as each jolt of the wheels drove the burning pain of his wounds higher, until at last he had drifted into a stupor, certain that his eyes were closing for the last time but unable, any longer, to fight it …

 

“Vivienne said you were hurt, too,” the Inquisitor said, more gently.

 

Cullen automatically put his hand to his side. “Yes. I was fortunate to have the Divine Victoria’s help — and fortunate Killeen got me here when she did. The wounds turned.”

 

“How did it happen?” Lady Trevelyan asked.

 

“Andraste’s sacred girdle, let the man tell it properly!” Varric said. “And wait a minute, Curly, while I find my … Ruffles, can I borrow a quill?”

 

“Of course.” Lady Montilyet handed one over.

 

“And ink? Thanks. And parchment? Right, I’m set. Start from the beginning, Curly.”

 

Cullen was used to giving reports, and he told the others what had happened since he had left Amaranthine much as if it had been a military after-action: personnel involved, salient strategic details, the significant points of action, and the conclusion.

 

 Or it would have been, if not for the interruptions, and demands for elucidation, and more detail, and explanation, and so Cullen found himself saying far more than _there being signs of Killeen and Fel, and a dragon on the island, Ali — Alexander and I landed. I was injured, and the dragon killed._

“Wait, a _dragon_?” Lady Montilyet and Varric said almost in unison.

 

 “Bull is going to be _furious_ you didn’t wait for him,” the Inquisitor said.

 

And so Cullen had to give them details of the fight, Killeen’s mad dash under the nose of the beast armed with nothing but her boot-knife, his own sword chipping on the scales of the creature’s leg, _Alexander_ _’s_ fatal blow. 

What had happened after that — the days on the open sea, the days after their boat had reached the Orlesian shore, he was much less able to detail, weak as he had been with his wounds and, in the latter part of the duty, hazy with fever.

 

“I’ll have to ask Killer,” Varric muttered, scribbling. “Or Alexander.”

 

“And where is this _Alexander_ now?” Lady Montilyet asked, her delicate emphasis leaving Cullen in no doubt she guessed the name he was not saying.

 

“Asleep, I presume,” Cullen said, “given the hour.”

 

“As we all should be,” Vivienne said, rising. “You in particular, Commander — do not abuse the healers’ licence as Lieutenant Hanmount seems to have.”

 

About to stand as both good manners and Vivienne’s words dictated, Cullen paused. “She was not well enough to ride?”

 

Vivienne, too, paused. “Oh, she’s well enough,” she said at last. “I had wished to speak to her — but if I had thought any of you were likely to be in danger, I would have stayed, despite our Inquisitor’s precipitate arrival.” Lady Trevelyan raised an eyebrow, and Vivienne smiled serenely. “Sister Nightingale is not the only one who knows how to listen to the wind, my dear.”

 

With that, Vivienne swept out. She had not, Cullen noted with some amusement, lost her unerring instinct for a good exit line.

 

“Curly, talk some sense into her, will you?” Varric said, folding his parchment and slipping it into a pocket.

 

“The Divine Victoria?” Cullen asked, startled.

 

Varric jerked his thumb at the Inquisitor. “Evelyn.”

 

“Over what?” Cullen asked.

 

“Staking herself out like a lamb in bear territory.”

 

“Val Royeaux is hardly Venetori territory,” the Inquisitor pointed out.

 

“It’s certainly close enough to it that the noise we’ve made over the past few days will get some unwelcome attention,” the dwarf said.

 

“This is the country home of the Divine,” Lady Montilyet said. “It would take _several_ armies to get to the Inquisitor in here.”

 

“It would, wouldn’t it?” Lady Trevelyan said thoughtfully.

 

“Oh, no,” Varric said hastily. “Don’t even think it, your worshipfulness. Not without Tiny, and Buttercup, and Sparkler. You even let Nightingale pinch Lofty back.”

 

“Think what?” Cullen asked, and when the Inquisitor simply raised an eyebrow, “Think _what_ , Inquisitor? I ask as the Commander of your military forces.”

 

“Well, I’m not here to hide behind walls, Cullen,” Lady Trevelyan said. “If I wanted to do that, I could have stayed in Skyhold.”

 

“Bait,” Cullen said. “You plan to use yourself as bait.”

 

“Well,” the Inquisitor said, “Yes … and no.” She crossed to the door to the corridor, opened it. “Stanton. Could you come in here, please?”


	93. At The Divine's Residence - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who might have worried that the recent slow pace and the length of this story might lead to it never being finished, I can reassure you — I’ve now finished the first draft, 111 chapters plus epilogue. Why am I not showering you with Blindsidey goodness all at once? Well, I now need to go through it with a fine tooth comb and make sure all the red herrings are scooped out of the boat, all the real herrings are floured and fried, and all the loose ends are securely tied. So, if there’s a particular question you want to be sure is answered, a particular plot you want tied up, do pipe up and tell me what it is, so I can make sure I’ve covered it — I can’t promise to do so in great detail, but I will do my best to leave no-one dangling.

_28th Harvestmere_

* * *

 

The Divine Victoria’s estate had an odd air of desertion as Killeen, Emile, and the rest rode up the drive, although smoke still curled from the chimneys. She checked her horse, hand dropping out of habit to where her sword — _Maker take that woodcutter_ — to where her sword _should_ have been.

 

“Emile,” she said. “Something’s wrong. There should be more noise. Something’s not right.”

 

He reined back as well. “The Divine’s away,” he said. “You can always tell when she’s not here.”

 

Killeen took his word for it, but didn’t quite relax until they were in the stable-yard and the boy who took her mount’s reins as she swung down confirmed it — the Divine Victoria, and her guests, had travelled to Val Royeaux only that morning.

 

The housekeeper had more information: _guests_ included more than Cullen, Fel and Alistair but also, to Killeen’s bemusement, the Inquisitor and assorted companions. The Inquisitor was to be guest of honour at a ball the Divine Victoria was holding in her city house that very evening — and had left instructions that Killeen should follow the others to Val Royeaux when she returned, to attend the ball as well.

 

The housekeeper didn’t say _instructions_ , of course, but _the Divine requested_. Both she and Killeen understood that Vivienne’s _requests_ carried the weight of other people’s _commands_ , and Killeen sighed, and went to find a fresh horse.

 

Her spirits lifted when she found that fresh horse to be Firefly, and they spent several minutes getting reacquainted before she saddled the mare and set off with a lighter heart.

 

It was far less distance to Val Royeaux than she had thought — their wrong turn, in the dark and the snow, had been close to parallel to the route that would have taken them to the city, and the Divine _of course_ had made sure there was a direct route, well maintained, from her estate to the city. Firefly wanted to take it at speed, but Killeen, cautious of the possibility of ice, held her in, and so it was full dark before they reached the city gates and clattered through the plaza to the Divine’s residence.

 

She was expected, a shivering stable-hand waiting outside the door to take Firefly, an exquisitely gowned woman waiting _inside_ it to sweep Killeen upstairs.

 

Killeen baulked. “Where’s Commander Cullen?”

 

“At this hour, already at the ball, ser,” the woman said, with a look at Killeen’s armour and cloak that managed to make the _ser_ sound like _churl_. “As you should be, as soon as you’ve changed.”

 

“Oh, no,” Killeen said. “I’m not one for ballgowns.”

 

“That is entirely apparent,” the woman said with a sniff. “The Divine has ordered suitable clothes for you.”

 

Killeen considered simply refusing, and striding through the house in the direction of the distant music, but then thought of Vivienne’s reaction, and sighed. “All right,” she said, letting herself be guided upstairs.

 

“You will, _of course_ , wish to bathe,” the woman said.

 

“I washed yesterday,” Killeen protested. “Or the day before, anyway.”

 

“ _Exactly_.”

 

The room she was ushered to was smaller than the one she’d woken in at Vivienne’s country estate, but no less luxuriously appointed. Her escort pointed out the washroom, and resignedly Killeen shed her armour, leaving it on a chair for lack of a stand, and went to scrub herself as clean as she could in as little time as she could manage.

 

About to head back out into the room, she heard a man’s voice, and paused.

 

“Try again,” Cole said.

 

There was a pause. “Like that?” Fel asked.

 

Killeen opened the door. Cole and Fel were sitting by the fire, and both turned at the sound of the door, the green glow flickering around Fel’s fingers disappearing.

 

Killeen eyed it warily. There were clothes laid out on the bed, and she went to investigate them, saying as casually as she could, “When did you get here, Cole?”

 

“Today,” he said. “But you don’t mean _here_. After you left. I’m sorry you didn’t find your sword.”

 

“I’ll get another,” Killeen said. The clothes were, mercifully, breeches, shirt and jacket, although somewhat more complicated than seemed necessary, and she began to get dressed. “What were you two talking about?”

 

“Cole’s friend is helping me,” Fel said. “So I can do more, and not get tired.”

 

“Didn’t we talk about not trusting Cole’s friend?” Killeen said. The shirt was heavier than she expected when she lifted it, and her fingers found the padding and the small plates of brigandine. She shrugged into it and laced it up.

 

“Yes, but Cole says she really _is_ his friend,” Fel said.

 

“She is,” Cole said. “She wants to help, like I did. But she knows how, more than I did. She’s helped mages before. That’s why I went to find her, when I knew.”

 

“When _did_ you know, out of interest?” Killeen asked, sitting down to pull on the boots set ready for her. “And forgive me if I don’t consider a long association with mages all that much of a recommendation for something from the Fade.”

 

“When she healed Ser Calenhad,” Cole said. “I waited to make sure she’d be all right, then I went. I didn’t know that the dragon would happen. I’m sorry.”

 

“None of us knew that the dragon would happen,” Killeen said, still wondering just which mages this spirit had been _helping_ — and what had become of them.

 

“Her name was Wynne,” Cole said sadly. “She was very brave. She gave up her life to save my friend.”

 

“Wynne — _Alistair_ _’s_ Wynne? Hero of Ferelden’s friend, Wynne?”

 

“Yes,” Cole said. “It’s all right to be frightened for Fel, but she needs her spirit, now. Healers are like a very bright light, in the Fade. Without a strong friend, she’s in danger.”

 

Thinking of the cave by the beach, Killeen shuddered.

 

“Exactly,” Cole said.

 

Killeen sat down on the bed, realised she was sitting on something hard, and felt beneath her to find a sheathed sword. She shifted position and laid it across her knees, gauging the weight and realising it was no decorative adornment. _Maker_ _’s balls, I really don’t know what’s the best thing to do here. I’m no mage. I can’t judge the truth of what this spirit might or might not do …_

 

She looked at the fair-haired young man sitting cross-legged by the fire. _He_ _’s never done any of us harm. He’s saved lives, quite possibly mine that day at Haven. And … it’s hard to think of someone who knows more about the Fade than Cole, even if that_ is _part of what makes him so unsettling_.

 

“Just … be careful,” she said at last, standing and slinging the sword belt around her hips. “Until we have the chance to talk to someone like Dorian, or the Inquisitor. Please?”

 

Both of them nodded, and Killeen supposed that was the best she could do, until she had the chance to raise the subject with a mage — a mage who _wasn_ _’t_ Vivienne, who, Killeen knew from Skyhold gossip, was a firm believer in the Circles, although not in the form they’d taken in the last years before the Mage Rebellion.

 

She looked down at herself, trying to judge how ridiculous she looked in the high boots, lace-collared shirt, and elaborate jacket. _Not very_ , she thought, _although I_ _’ll stand out among the Val Royeaux ladies more in this than in armour. At least then I’d have been mistaken for one of the guards, and ignored._

 

 "I do hope Duke Bastien puts out the lights before he touches her,” Cole said in his light, even voice. “But then, she must disappear in the dark. _Gown tight between my fingers, cold all over_. White, cream, silver, from then on, contrast they can’t ignore. Not like them, never like them. _Better_."

 

Killeen stared at him. _Duke Bastien_ … Vivienne had been his mistress.  She had a sudden image of the dark-skinned Madame de Fer holding a swatch of ivory fabric against her arm, choosing the colour that would make her skin a point of pride. “She wants me to stand out?” she guessed. “For people to look at me?”

 

“She wants you to look at yourself,” Cole said.

 

Killeen snorted. “Then she should have put me in a room with a mirror. Fel, do you know where the ballroom is?”

 

“Yes,” Fel said.

 

Killeen held out her hand. “Then show me, please. I suspect I’d better get down there before anything goes wrong.”

 

“What will go wrong?” Fel asked with interest, taking Killeen’s hand.

 

“I don’t know,” Killeen said, “but I do know that the Divine Victoria didn’t leave me a _dress_ sword for this evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that the Spirit is presumed to have stayed with Evangeline in canon …


	94. At The Ball - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen get a surprise.

_28th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

 _Stanton,_ Cullen thought, watching his nephew make his way across the ballroom, gracefully negotiating the marble floor despite his jewel-encrusted slippers and voluminous skirts, _makes a fairly convincing Inquisitor._

_And quite a pretty girl._

Lady Trevelyan’s arguments had been strong ones: none of the Inquisition soldiers, even the ones who were fair-complexioned and female, could have passed for a mage — could have passed for anything other than people who spent their days hacking things to pieces for a living. There might have been one or another among the Divine Victoria’s household staff who could have been convincing in disguise, but they were unknown quantities as far as the Inquisitor was concerned, however Vivienne might vouch for them.

 

_Stanton, on the other hand_ _…_

Still a year or so short of the adolescent growth-spurt that Cullen suspected would add more than a foot to the lad’s height and nearly double his weight — _if the Rutherford heritage runs true_ — Stanton was almost the same height as Lady Trevelyan, and, in an Orlesian ball-gown with strategic padding, not dissimilar in build. The mask all but concealed his face, and what showed was heavily painted, but no more heavily than the other ladies present. The current fashion being for elaborate and obviously artificial wigs, there had been no problem as to Stanton’s hair.  _Doubtless a glamour of enchantment to help it all along_ , Cullen thought, _along with the protection spells and the charms set into every piece of jewellery the lad wears_.

 

Still, Cullen was not sure he should have agreed to it. _Would_ not have agreed to it, if it had not been clear that the Inquisitor was utterly bent on her plan, and if he had not been conscious that he did not, as a less-than-dutiful uncle, have the standing to absolutely forbid it.

 

_Better to play a part in the planning, and to be present should anything go wrong, than to stand on rights I don_ _’t possess and find all proceeding without me._

 

And if that meant keeping his opinion of the Inquisitor’s determination to draw her enemies out into the open where she could deal with them behind his teeth, he would. _Although Mia will doubtless think otherwise._

At least he knew that the Inquisitor had sent Sera and the Bull to see Mia, Thomas and Krem safely to Skyhold. 

 

Cullen had even agreed to Vivienne’s insistence he be _properly dressed, dear Commander_ , once it was clear that _her_ idea of ‘properly dressed’ included his own standards of a fine brigandine shirt beneath the formal frippery, and a sword that would be of real use if needed.

 

And now he was doing his best to avoid falling into conversation with any of the Divine Victoria’s other guests, keep an eye on Stanton, and watch for the Inquisitor’s enemies to show themselves, all at once.

 

The second two were easier than the first. Although none of the young women invited this evening were as persistent as the ones who had dogged his steps in the Winter Palace — or perhaps it was just that their behaviour was more moderate in the crowded ballroom — he was still perpetually surrounded by a fluttering mob clad in satin and silk and feathers and lace.   The mingling of so many different perfumes was making him feel slightly nauseous, and in the unreal light of the mage-lit ballroom their soft chatter seemed to creep around the edge of his hearing like voices half-heard in dreams, half-heard and yet still clear enough to make his palms sweat and his skin crawl.

 

He looked over the heads of the girls in front of him, seeking some urgent reason he was needed elsewhere, and saw the double doors of the ballroom open. Through them stepped a tall, broad-shouldered figure he instantly recognised — could never mistake, wherever he might see her, however she might be dressed.

 

Out of armour, this evening, but not decked in frills and furbelows like the girls who besieged him, nor in the elegant finery that swathed “the Inquisitor” and Lady Montilyet. A fine-cut coat of deep brown broadcloth figured with bronze embroidery fit close to her frame, open to show the ruffles of a fine lawn shirt that disappeared beneath a waistcoat in the same bronze as the embroidery of her coat, figured with yellow and red. Her breeches were brown as well, disappearing into high leather boots, and the hilt of the sword beneath her hand winked with the red of rubies and the gleam of gold.

 

Vivianne — _for surely it could only have been the Lady Vivienne, Madame de Fer, the Divine Victoria, who had the sense of style and the implacable will to see Killeen outfitted so —_ had dressed Killeen all in the russet and bronze hues of autumn, and she stood out among the pastels and pale tones of the Orlesian court like a blazing fall maple in among garden-beds of manicured pallid petunias.

 

She scanned the room, and Cullen knew the second she saw him, felt her gaze meet his as tangible as a touch. She smiled, and for a moment they were alone, the babble of the crowd, the strains of music fading into silence, the bright colours of the assembled guests draining to the colour-bleached tones of a moonlit night.

 

Then she stepped into the crowd and he lost sight of her for a moment.

 

“I said, Commander, have you ever seen the Miroir de la Mere by moonlight?” the young woman beside him said.

 

“Never,” Cullen said. “Excuse me, I —”

 

“Oh, you _must_ , it is simply _too_ beautiful,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Especially now, with the ice.”

 

Cullen tried to unobtrusively shake her hand away, but her fingers tightened. “I’m afraid I will have to take your word for it,” he said a little desperately.

 

“It will only take a moment—”

 

And then her hand was gone and there was a bronze-clad shoulder between her and Cullen.

 

“Mine,” Killeen said. Her teeth were bared. It might have passed for a smile, if her hand had not been on her sword and if there had not been a half-inch of unsheathed metal showing above the scabbard.

 

The girl retreated.

 

Cullen glanced around and saw a less-populated vantage point behind a cluster of pillars. “Over here,” he said, taking Killeen’s hand and drawing her with him.

 

And then they were as alone as anyone could be in the middle of an Orlesian ball, and her arms were around his neck and her lips beneath his and her body warm and strong under his hands.

 

She pulled away enough to whisper against his lips, “Are we expecting trouble?”

 

Cullen groaned softly, and abandoned thoughts of dragging her through the nearest door to find somewhere with _real_ privacy. “Yes,” he said.

 

He felt her smile. “Pity,” she said, a little hoarsely.

 

His head close to hers, lips almost touching her ear, Cullen told her the details of the Inquisitor’s plans, keeping his voice to a low murmur that even someone standing next to them couldn’t have overheard.

 

When he’d finished explaining the bait, the decoy, the Inquisitor’s trap, Killeen pulled back to give him a long, level stare. He could tell the thoughts she couldn’t, for the sake of discretion, express aloud: _are you all out of your Maker-forsaken minds_ was probably the least of it.

 

“I know,” he said.

 

With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders, and then a second time, settling her coat more securely, and put her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Well,” she said, “we’d better go and make ourselves useful, then.”

 

“Did you get your sword back?” Cullen asked as they made their way along the the edge of the ballroom, Killeen a little behind him and turned to watch his blindspot as he watched hers.

 

“No,” she said shortly. “Bastard said it was stolen, but he sold it, more likely. Master Harritt will have my hide, and some Orlesian bravo will have a sword ten times too good for him.”

 

“Harritt will make you another, when we get back to Skyhold.” He paused, seeing something … not quite right. He scanned the part of the room he’d been watching again, and saw what had tugged at his attention, a woman whose bodice was stiffer than mere corsetry could explain, whose rings and necklace were heavier and less ornate than those of the other women near her.   “There, in the green. By Lady Montilyet.” 

 

Killeen glanced at the woman he’d identified, and nodded agreement. “Go ask her to dance,” and when he gaped, “Lady Montilyet. So she’s standing somewhere other than right next to our friend.”

 

It made sense, even if the last thing Cullen wanted to do was make an exhibition of his poor dancing skills. _Still, better Josephine gets trampled feet than finds herself at the epicentre of whatever_ _’s coming next._

 

He made his way across to Lady Montilyet, not looking at the woman in green, and when the ambassador accepted his invitation, led her onto the dance-floor. It was as bad as he’d anticipated, although Josephine was too polite to allow herself to wince. Mercifully, the music finished quite soon, and Cullen made sure to leave Josephine on the other side of the ballroom to the woman in green, and quite near to where Blackwall was lurking by a pillar, glowering at the assembled nobles.

 

Across the room, he could see Killeen, in stark relief among the Orlesian finery, standing with her back casually to a pillar and talking to a man and woman Cullen couldn’t recognise from behind. Keeping a wary eye on the woman in green, and relieved that Stanton was nowhere near her, he made his way around the edge of the room toward Killeen.

 

When he was closer, he recognised the man by the colour of his hair and his bearing. _Michel de Chien — Michel de_ Chevin.  The chevalier’s hand rested at the small of the back of the woman with him, casually possessive.

 

“Of course,” the woman was saying, “we were most fortunate to have set aside reserves from last year — and that our grain stores are elevated.” Cullen recognised a boast disguised by false humility. _Of course_ , she was really saying, _we are wealthy enough to hold a year_ _’s harvest in reserve — and clever enough to store it properly_.

 

“Too modest,” De Chevin said, as the woman had no doubt expected him too. “Jeanette is the shrewdest manager of her lands in all of Orlais.”

 

As he reached the three, Cullen saw Killeen arch an eyebrow. “And they are no doubt extensive,” she said dryly.

 

“Well …” Jeanette said, eyes cast modestly down. The opulence of her gown and jewels answered Killeen’s remark without words — Jeanette was undoubtedly a wealthy woman with a considerable income. Her gaze flicked up again, rested pointedly on Killeen’s sword, her coat, and then the white tracery of her scars. “One tries to be more than merely decorative.”

 

The insult was so carefully concealed that it took Cullen a second to recognise it, saw Killeen’s eyes widen slightly as it slid home.

 

“Ser Michel,” he said to de Chevin, “Mademoiselle.” And then, before either of them could do more than murmur a response, he slid past de Chevin, forcing the man to move aside, and pulled Killeen close. “Forgive me for abandoning you, my love,” he said, and kissed her as if they were alone.

 

When he drew back Killeen’s expression was a little dazed, and de Chevin’s ruefully amused. He inclined his head to Cullen. “I see now I was defeated by the better man,” he said with a smile.

 

“Far be it for me to disagree with a man in his own country,” Cullen said politely, and de Chevin’s smile widened.

 

“Ser Michel,” Killeen said quickly, “you can perhaps settle a bet the Commander and I have. The lady in green, over by the east corner of the room. Cullen thinks she’s one of the Berengers, but I think he’s wrong.”

 

De Chevin’s gaze sharpened a little, and when he turned to look he did so casually, his gaze not lingering on the woman in question. “You win the bet, Lieutenant. She is the Marchioness of Langlois, Babette Fournier.”

 

“Where is Langlois?” Killeen asked, butchering the pronunciation. 

 

“Between Churneau and Perendale,” de Chevin said promptly. _Just across the thin edge of Nevarra from the Imperium_ , Cullen realised.

 

“I am surprised to see her so far south, especially at this time of year,” Jeanette added. “And given how badly Langlois was hit by the bad weather.”

 

De Chevin looked from Cullen to Killeen and back again, and then took Jeanette’s hand. “My dear, are you sure you’re completely recovered from your chill? You seem a little pale.”

 

Jeanette’s face betrayed only the slightest flicker of surprise before she took her cue, and Cullen could see why an ambitious man like De Chevin would settle on _her_ , out of all the wealthy and eligible Orlesian ladies, as second best to Killeen. “Perhaps not. I am sorry to be so tiresome, but perhaps …”

 

“I will see you home,” De Chevin said. “Commander, Lieutenant, please excuse us.”

 

“Should we tell the others?” Killeen asked softly as Ser Michel and his lady left them.

 

Cullen glanced around the room. “Lady Vivienne knows,” he said, seeing the way the Divine stood so as to keep Babette Fournier in her field of view, even though that gave fully one half of the room her less-favourite profile. “She will have allies, of course.”

 

“Here or nearby,” Killeen agreed. An elven servant offered a tray of drinks and she took one. “Have you seen Al … _exander_?”

 

“Near the buffet, with Varric,” Cullen said. There was something … he couldn’t quite bring it into focus. _Something_ _…_

 

“I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Killeen said dryly. “Are they more likely to keep each other out of trouble, or the reverse?”

 

“Little we can do about it, either way,” Cullen said. “Perhaps we should dance?”

 

Killeen grinned. “I’ve two left feet.”

 

“So do I,” Cullen said. “We should make a perfect pair — and it will mean we can get close to Fournier.”

 

Killeen laughed, and looked around for somewhere to put down her glass. Before she could find somewhere, however, the music died. “Your toes have had a narrow escape,” she said.

 

Cullen turned to see what was happening. _Speeches? No._ A bard was taking his place at one end of the ballroom. _A performance._ He braced himself to look appreciative of warbling Orlesian music.

 

The bard, however, struck a chord on his harp and began to pick out a melody that was actually recognisable. _In honour of the Inquisitor, no doubt, they_ _’ve found a bard who knows Ferelden styles._

 

The tune was vaguely familiar — and when the bard began to sing, Cullen realised why. He’d heard Maryden composing it in the _Herald_ _’s Rest_.

 

“I tell of a hero both bold and brave,” the bard chanted. “Steadfast and true to the edge of the grave. Strong was her shield and her blade was keen — I sing the tale of the hero Killeen.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Killeen said beside him.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah … Maryden must have finished her, um. Song.” 

She turned to look at him. “You _knew_ about this?”

 

“I knew she was writing something,” Cullen said. Several people nearby turned to hiss them to silence, and Killeen subsided, hand clenched on the hilt of her sword.

 

The bard had covered several verses while they were talking. “And all was still on the glassy plain, where tears and blood were shed like rain. Beneath the green and ghastly sky, brave soldiers set themselves to die. Till one rode out on a horse like fire — head held high and banner higher. No spur she had nor needed none, for she and her horse moved like one.”

 

Cullen stole a glance at Killeen and saw that she was scarlet with embarrassment. He leaned closer and murmured, “They don’t know it’s you.”

 

“ _You_ know,” Killeen muttered.

 

“She blew a call on her golden horn, a note as sweet as a sharp spring morn. Flag held high and blade born bare — never was one so fell and fair,” sang the bard.

 

“Oh, for the love of —” Killeen spluttered.

 

“Hush!” said a woman near them.

 

“Listen, lady —” Killeen started. Cullen grabbed her wrist and she subsided.

 

“Her challenge given, she spurred her horse —”

 

“You just said I didn’t have any spurs!” Killeen said loudly.

 

The bard fumbled a chord and recovered. “She faced the whole of the darkspawn force. Like a falling star her gleaming sword cut a swathe through the evil horde.”

 

“I did not!” Killeen snapped. She shook off Cullen’s hand and strode forward. “There _were_ a lot of darkspawn, right, but I only fought one of them, their leader.  And I didn’t so much _fight_ it as lure it into range of our archers. Scout Harding, she actually killed it. And saved my life doing it.”

 

“Killeen …” Cullen said. The bard looked thunderstruck to be confronted by the subject of his ballad. Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen could see Lady Vivienne looking amused. Around the ballroom, expressions of irritation from the Orlesian nobles were beginning to change to shock.

 

“And my horn wasn’t gold, it was an ordinary battle horn, probably hacked off the head of a ram,” Killeen went on inexorably. “And it didn’t sound sweet, it sounded like a dying cow.”

 

“I’ll, uh, make a note,” the bard said dazedly.

 

 “ _And_ —”

 

“Are you really Killeen Hanmount?” someone asked. “Who killed the lyrium dragon?”

 

“I didn’t kill it,” Killeen said, taken aback. “It fell on me, that’s all.”

 

“And saved the Inquisitor from the darkspawn?” the same man asked.

 

“I wouldn’t put it _that_ way,” Killeen said quickly.

 

The Orlesian noble produced parchment and a thin stick of charcoal. “Can I have your autograph?”

 

As the bard crept away, Killeen was besieged by Vivienne’s guests. She threw one desperate glance at Cullen as she was swept away. Cullen turned and saw Vivienne looking amused. He frowned at her, and plunged into the maelstrom of lace and velvet surrounding Killeen.

 

“I didn’t really do anything!” Killeen was saying as he reached her.  An elven servant had worked his way through the crowd and offered her a glass. Killeen looked from the glass to the one in her hand, and raised the one she held to her lips.

 

 _Elven servants_ , Cullen thought. _Which are completely absent from the Divine_ _’s country estate._

 

_Because the Inquisitor may not have been able to do anything for the elves in the Orlesian Empire but she has made her disapproval of their treatment abundantly clear._

_So why are they waiting on guests at the Divine Victoria_ _’s ball?_

He closed the distance between himself and Killeen in two strides and knocked the goblet from her hand as her lips touched the rim.


	95. At The Ball - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all hell breaks loose.

_28th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Killeen saw Cullen moving toward her, fast enough to send the nobles in between them staggering, wearing the cool, stern expression that she’d seen on his face in the battlefield. Her pulse ticked upwards and her free hand had already dropped to the hilt of her sword as he reached her and struck the goblet from her grip.

 

 _Poison?_ Her gaze flew to the elf who’d been about to hand her another drink, looking for any trace of guilt in his expression —

 

 _The_ elf _who was about to hand me another drink._

 

The goblet fell ringing to the marble floor, bounced, and rolled with a rattle that was startlingly loud in the spreading silence around them.  _This is surely_ not _how the Inquisitor planned to spring her trap-within-a-trap_ …

 

She let go of her sword and turned to Cullen, shoving him. “I _said_ , ‘m not drunk!” she hissed, loudly enough for at least the nearest ten people to hear.

 

It took Cullen a couple of heartbeats to catch on, and then he took her arm. “Let’s get some air.”

 

“It’s _cold_ outside,” Killeen grumbled, letting him draw her away.

 

Behind them, the chatter of gossip rose in a noisy buzz. Killeen pretended to stumble, and leaned heavily on Cullen as he steadied her. “How do we warn the others?” she murmured.

 

She felt Cullen turn a little and guessed he was glancing around the ballroom over her head. “How drunk can you pretend to be?”

 

“There goes my reputation in Orlais,” Killeen said, and stopped dead, pulling away from him and bending over, hands on her knees. Loudly, she announced, “Goin’ to —”

 

“Not here!” Cullen said, equally loudly, and seized her arm, dragging her stumbling toward the nearest exit — which happened to take them past the buffet table where Alistair and Varric were.

 

“Help me with her, Varric,” Cullen said.

 

Varric pulled Killeen’s other arm over his shoulders. She glanced down to see his expression cheerfully amused — but his eyes were serious and keen. “Elven servants,” she said softly, and he gave the slightest nod.

 

 _But surely Vivienne would have noticed by now_ , Killeen thought. _Surely the Divine Victoria_ _’s household is not so carelessly run that it is_ this _open to infiltration._

 

They reached the door. “I’ve got her,” Cullen said, and Varric turned away. _Hopefully to let the Inquisitor know — where-ever she is._

_Stanton_. _Someone has to warn Stanton_. “Cullen —”

 

He opened the door and hauled her through. “I’ll ask the Divine for a remedy for you once she’s finished talking to the Inquisitor,” he said.

 

 _So Stanton is as well protected as anyone here, arm_ _’s length from the Iron Lady._ “All right,” she said as the door swung shut behind them. Out of sight of the guests, she straightened —

 

And found herself in the middle of four elves who were most definitely _not_ disguised as servants. They were clad in armour and armed to the teeth.

 

Instantly, Killeen drew her sword, turning away from Cullen to set her back firmly against his. She could tell from the flex and give of his muscles that he’d drawn his own.

 

“Peace!” one of the elves said.  She raised her empty hands. “We are not your enemy.”

 

“Who are you?” Cullen demanded.

 

“My name is Devera,” the elf said. “I am — I _was_ — Briala’s … close friend. These three are my kin. We have an urgent message for the Divine.”

 

Killeen didn’t lower her sword. “How did you get in here?”

 

“Briala’s people are all through the house, disguised as slaves. They still think me loyal, and let me in. They promised to bring the Divine to speak to me, but time is growing short.”

 

“I am Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s military,” Cullen said. “Give _me_ your message, and I will see the Divine hears it.”

 

“It is only this,” Devara said. “As I said, Briala’s people are here. Briala’s grudge against the Inquisitor for her exile has not diminished.  I only recently learned that she has joined forces with an Orlesian noble who has turned to dark magic, blood magic.  Both are here tonight. They plan to strike.”

 

 “How did Briala get elves into the Divine’s household?” Killeen asked.

 

“The Divine’s own servants fell victim to a bad mussel today’s midday soup,” Devara said. “She was forced to borrow from other noble households in the city — or cancel the ball.”

 

“Stay here,” Cullen said. “I’ll warn the Divine. Kill — Killeen.”

 

“Got them,” Killeen said, turning so she had all four of the elves in her field of view, sword held low and ready.

 

He touched her shoulder, sheathed his sword, and went.

 

“You can trust us!” Devara protested. “We’ve come here at great risk to warn —”

 

“I’m sure,” Killeen said. “And no doubt this is in no way a double-bluff, and you’re entirely right to be insulted. But nonetheless, you’ll oblige me by getting into that large armoire behind you.”

 

Devara’s eyes narrowed. “There are four of us.”

 

“I know,” Killeen said. “Hardly a fair fight. Don’t think that’ll make me go easy on you, though.”

 

Devara was clearly not that bright. The elf’s brow creased in puzzlement, and her mouth opened.

 

Killeen sighed. “Just get in the Blighted cupboard, will you?” When they still hesitated, she took a half-step forward, raising her sword. “ _Move_!” she snarled in the voice that made new recruits realise they were not, after all, too tired to run rather than walk to the training ground.

 

They moved. Killeen shut the cupboard door on them and wedged the nearest chair against it. _It_ _’ll hold them at least a little while_.

 

 _And I suspect that whatever_ _’s going to happen, it’s going to happen in the next few moments_.

 

Cautiously, remembering that as far as the crowd in the ballroom were concerned she was stumbling drunk and therefore out of any hostile force’s calculation, she opened the door a crack and peered through.

 

There was Cullen, by Vivienne, head close to hers as he spoke quietly. Lady Montilyet was still with  Blackwall, and hopefully safe there.  Varric and Alistair, she couldn’t see. And Stanton …

 

Stanton was, from the look of things, trying to extricate himself gracefully from a conversation with a middle-aged Orlesian dandy who fancied himself as the Inquisitor’s suitor. _Poor lad_. Killeen herself would have kneed the man in his jewelled codpiece and she would have laid money on Evelyn Trevelyan doing the same, _but I doubt anyone told Stanton that._

 

Killeen saw him sidestep the Inquisitor’s admirer, take a long stride away and — 

 

Come face to face with Marchioness of Langlois.

 

Babette Fournier raised her hands, lightning gathering in a crackling ball around them.

 

“Ware mage!” Killeen hollered at the top of her lungs, flinging herself through the door and toward where Stanton stood frozen.

 

She had covered barely a third of the distance when the Marchioness hurled a bolt of electricity so powerful the whole room was lit stark, blinding white.

 

It hit Stanton square on at a distance of less than three feet.

 


	96. In The Fray - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain things are revealed.

_28th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

Killeen’s voice cut through the chatter of the guests and the strains of music drifting over the ballroom. “Ware mage!”

 

Cullen turned to see her pushing her way through the crowd, sword out — turned further to see Stanton seemingly frozen in shock — saw the Marchioness of Langlois blast him with a lightning spell powerful enough to have left nothing but ash of a whole company, let alone the Inquisitor.

 

_Or the adolescent boy disguised as her._

 

Several things happened almost at once, and so slowly that Cullen could see each and every one of them in precise detail.

 

The lightning spell struck Stanton and the jewelled half-mask he wore, gift of Celene after the Inquisitor had saved her life in the Winter Palace and subject since then to some considerable tinkering by Dagna, flared as bright and white as the lighting itself.

 

All around the room, elven servants dropped their trays and produced weapons.

 

Blackwall drew his sword and shoved Josephine behind him.

 

Varric leapt onto the buffet table, unslinging Bianca, and Alistair hopped up beside him, holding a drinks tray ready to deflect any arrows aimed at the dwarf.

 

From somewhere behind Cullen a wave of glimmering green magic, almost too raw to be described as a spell, surged past him toward Stanton. _So that_ _’s where the Inquisitor is_.

 

And then his sword was in his hand and events were moving at chaotic speed.

 

Stanton cried out in his own voice, sounding surprised rather than in pain, as the electricity of Babette Fournier’s spell writhed briefly across the surface of his mask, crowning him in white fire, and then lashed back along itself to take the Marchioness squarely in the face.

 

In an instant, she was no longer anything recognisable as a woman.

 

Guests screamed and ran — except for those revealing weapons of their own.  Cullen flung himself toward Stanton, the blue flicker of a barrier spell settling around him. One of the armed nobles raised her arm, the glint of a throwing knife in her hand, and then fell backward with a crossbow bolt in her throat. Cullen stepped over her without breaking stride.

 

Killeen reached Stanton a few steps before him, flung her free arm around the boy’s shoulders and began dragging him toward the wall, the green spell enveloping them both now. Cullen fell in to step behind them, guarding their backs, wondering what new magic the Inquisitor had been experimenting with that felt so very different from her usual spells.

 

An armed elf sprinted toward them and Cullen raised his sword, but one of the armed nobles engaged the elf. Cullen left them to it, hoisted a staggering Stanton as they reached the limited shelter of a cluster of pillars and swung him into it.

 

“Killeen —” he gasped, and she nodded, turning to keep watch.

 

Cullen dropped his sword and took careful hold of the half-melted mask on Stanton’s face. He did not allow his hands to shake as he felt carefully at the edges, praying as fervently as he’d ever prayed for anything that he would not feel charred flesh fused to the metal. _Lady Trevelyan and Vivienne both promised it would work_ _… they said they were absolutely sure …_

 

“Uncle —” Stanton panted. “It’s all right.”

 

The mask was loose beneath his fingers, and so Cullen gently lifted it away. It came easily, and beneath it —

 

Stanton’s face, pale but unmarked. “It worked,” the boy croaked. “Like she said it would.”

 

There were no burns, no visible injuries, but Stanton’s lips were shading to a bluish tint. “Where are you hurt?” Cullen asked. _And where by the Maker is Vivienne? Or the Inquisitor?_

 

“Not,” Stanton said breathless. “Just — running in corsets. Help!”

 

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen found the knife in his boot and hauled Stanton forward. He slipped the tip of the blade beneath the fabric at the back of the boy’s neck and slit the dress down the back, then hastily cut the corset strings.

 

Stanton sucked in a giant breath and Cullen was relieved to see his colour returning to normal. “Thank you, Uncle,” the boy said.  He tugged at the bodice of his dress. “How do girls _wear_ this stuff?”

 

“Smart ones don’t,” Killeen said. “Cullen.”

 

“Stay there, lad,” Cullen said. He picked up his sword and rose to stand shoulder to shoulder with Killeen.

 

Most of the non-combatants had managed to flee to the edges of the room, where they were pushing and shoving at each other in their efforts to get further away from the fighting. From the look of things, Briala’s elves were winning the fight. Most of the bodies littering the floor were in the elaborate clothing of the Orlesian nobility, and those still on their feet were being pushed back — or trying to retreat — toward the main doors of the ballroom.

 

The first one reached them and stretched out a hand to open the doors.

 

And was hurled aside like a rag doll as they flew open. A howling wind roared through them, laced with snow, swept over the struggling combatants and left them frozen in place.

 

It ebbed to a gentle breeze, revealing the Inquisitor framed in the doorway, wearing neither an Orlesian ball-gown nor the Inquisition’s dress uniform but mage’s robes so stiff with brocade and encrusted with jewels they rivalled the Divine Victoria’s splendour. 

 

“Leaving so soon?” she said.

 

Killeen snorted. “I sense both Lady Montilyet and Vivienne’s hand in this,” she said softly.

 

“And Varric’s,” Cullen said.

 

“But where’s Briala?”

 

“Even the mage doesn’t know all the servant’s passages. None of them do.” Cole said, slipping around the columns. “We are invisible, un-people …”

 

“ _Which_ passage, Cole?” Killeen said.

 

He pointed upward. “It lets them lower the chandelier for cleaning,” he said, and Cullen saw the faintest outline of a trapdoor in the ceiling. “It’s all right. I told the Inquisitor. The door won’t open for her and there are a lot of soldiers right behind her.”

 

“I don’t think she’ll get away with exile this time,” Killeen said.

 

“No,” Cole said a little sadly. “She wanted to be free. She thought power would buy freedom. Then she sold her freedom to buy power.” 

 

Across the ballroom, the Inquisitor raised her hand, and the frost encasing the people in front of her lift. Immediately the elves leapt upon the nobles, disarming them efficiently.  One stepped forward and knelt before Lady Trevelyan. “Inquisitor,” he said. “Your enemies are defeated.”

 

“Thank you, Josvin,” the Inquisitor said in a voice loud and clear enough to carry to every corner of the room. “It will be widely known, and well remembered, that your people were loyal and true even when your leader fell into error.” Her gaze swept the nobles who had fought them, and then those cowering by the walls. “Unlike so many of those who, laughably, consider themselves your _betters_.”

 

There was a mutter at that, and Cullen suspected the Orlesian masks concealed more than a few frowns.

 

Lady Trevelyan ignored the mutter. “I am _sure_ ,” she said firmly, “that your masters and mistresses will see the injustice of keeping in servitude those who fought so bravely against an attack by agents of the Imperium on the Divine herself.” The diamond-hard glare she swept over the assembled nobles said as clearly as words _or I will know the reason why_.

 

First one, then another of the nobles mumbled acquiescence.

 

The Inquisitor gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent,” she said. “The Empress, with whom I am in _frequent and regular correspondence_ , will be delighted by your foresight and your gratitude to those who have risked their lives protecting the integrity of the Empire and the Chantry.”

 

She paused, and then went on more warmly, “And someone else who has risked his life. Where is Stanton?”

 

“He’s here, Inquisitor,” Cullen called.

 

“Uncle!” Stanton hissed from behind him. “I can’t go out there looking like _this_!”

 

Looking at him, Cullen had to admit the lad had a point. The mask and the wig were gone, but his face was still half-covered in the thick make-up favoured by the Orlesian court. His dress was in ruins above the waist, but the heavy skirts and ridiculous shoes were intact. _Less like a heroic survivor of a battle between mages, more like a female impersonator in the middle of a costume change._

“Here,” Killeen said. She sheathed her sword and shrugged out of her coat. With the cuff of her sleeve, she wiped most of the makeup off, and then held her coat for Stanton to put it on. “Keep your chin up, don’t flinch, it’ll be over before you know it.”

 

“We’ll be with you,” Cullen assured him.

 

“Anyone laughs, your Uncle will punch them,” Killeen promised.

 

Stanton gave her a shocked look. “Won’t that cause a diplomatic incident?”

 

“Hmmm,” Killeen said. “You’re probably right. Anyone laughs, _I_ _’ll_ punch them. I’m technically a private citizen at the moment so no-one can blame the Inquisition.”

 

“She’s joking, lad,” Cullen assured him. “Anyway — if anyone laughs at you the Inquisitor will turn them to an icicle long before Killeen or I have the chance to do anything. Ready?” Stanton nodded. “Then come on.”

 

Cullen himself would not have liked to be at the centre of attention in that assembly, in that room. He could imagine how Stanton must feel. _No doubt the boy_ _’s dreamed of being the hero of the hour many a time, and when he gets the chance it’s not bravely raising a sword against enemies but dressing as a girl and waiting for someone to attack that booby-trapped mask. He’s too young to know how much courage it takes to keep your nerve under such circumstances, to realise how well he did._

_Let alone how much courage it takes to walk across a room full of people you expect to laugh at you._

But no-one laughed. The three of them met the Inquisitor in the centre of the empty dance-floor, Killeen and Cullen hanging back a little as Lady Trevelyan took both Stanton’s hands in hers and stopped him when he began to kneel.

 

“I am afraid you are a little young for me to knight on the spot,” she said. “But no-one here should be in any doubt that you deserve it.” Cullen suspected she was speaking for the assembled crowd again, and was certain of it when she went on, “When Captain Aveline of the Kirkwall Guard sent word of how deeply Babette Fournier had drunk of blood magic, I knew that even I could not strike a blow against her. Only a device to turn her strength back on herself could succeed — and by its nature, that device could only be worn by a fighter such as yourself, Stanton, rather than by a mage. It was dire necessity that forced me to ask you to undertake such danger, and the willingness with which you agreed proved that your courage is of the highest order.”

 

Stanton, bright red, stammered, “My honour, Inquisitor.”

 

Lady Trevelyan lowered her voice. “And that is the _last_ time I let Varric write my speeches. Not that it’s not all true, but I imagine you’d like to get those stupid shoes off and get something to eat?”

 

Stanton managed a smile. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

 

Lady Trevelyan put her arm around his shoulders. She eyed the bloodstains on the floor. “I suspect the dancing part of the evening is over,” she said. “Perhaps the dining hall will be … tidier.”

 

She steered Stanton in that direction, Killeen and Cullen following.

 

“There’s four elves locked in an armoire in the hall, Inquisitor,” Killeen said quietly. “They said they’d come to warn you about Briala — but it looks like you already knew. Devara, one of them was called.”

 

The Inquisitor nodded. “Josvin thought she was too close to Briala to trust. We’ll find out if he was right or wrong.” She had a quiet word to one of the elves as they passed, and he nodded, and headed in the direction Killeen pointed. 

 

The rest of their company joined them, Lady Montilyet picking her way unhappily around the bodies on the floor and Blackwall stepping over them, Alistair and Varric hopping down from their vantage point on the buffet table. _And Vivienne is_ … _where?_

 

Following the Inquisitor into the dining room, Cullen saw that Vivienne was already there. She was drawn up to her full height, her face serene and implacable. One hand held her mage’s staff.

 

The other rested firmly on the shoulder of a squirming Fel.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that’s not what the Masks you get in game do. Writer’s licence! Also, Dagna.


	97. In The Dining Room - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, an argument.

_28th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Kill!” Fel cried as soon as she saw them. “I knew I shouldn’t — but she was going to hurt Stanton —”

 

“I’m all right, Fel,” Killeen said calmly. “Everything’s fine. Lady Vivienne, please let Cullen’s squire go.”

 

“Commander Cullen, you have certainly left the Templar Order _far_ behind,” Vivienne said, “to take an unharrowed mage as your squire.” 

 

_Don_ _’t be absurd_ , Cullen was about to say — and then he saw Fel’s face, white and frightened, her gaze fixed on his face. He turned to Killeen and saw that she wore her parade-rest expression, smooth and blank and unreadable.

 

_The tiny kitten in his hands is, against all expectations, still alive, even purring when he strokes its head_ _…_

Get better _, Fel whispers urgently in the dimness of the barn, expression intent, and he feels the pain and fever ease a little as if her goodwill carries as much healing power as the herbs_ _…_

_Raw healing magic blasts past him, heading for Stanton, tasting and feeling unfamiliar_ _…_

He stared at Killeen. “Maker’s _breath!_ How long have you known?”

 

“Since she saved my life on the island,” Killeen said. She added quite calmly, “I told her not to tell you. She didn’t want to lie to you, but I insisted.”

 

“And you have done untold harm,” Vivienne said. “A demon has found her.”

 

“No,” Cullen said involuntarily, hopelessly. Behind him, he could hear Stanton whispering urgently, too quietly for him to make out the words. Varric murmured a quiet reply. _Oh, lad, she was your friend, and now_ _…_

 

“No!” Fel said. “She’s not a demon, I told you! She’s a spirit!”

 

“I’m sorry, child,” Vivienne said. “There is no difference. I know none of this is your fault. You were too young, and had no help.”

 

“I did so have help!” Fel said. “I had Kill, and Cole. And Ser Calenhad. Kill and Ser Calenhad stopped the bad lady coming through when we were at the thin place and Cole found his friend to help me! And I’m _not_ too young, so there!”

 

_The bad lady. The thin place_. Suddenly their frantic exit from the safety of the cave near the beach into the danger of the storm made sense to Cullen. _Oh, Killeen_. The burden she’d been carrying, even more than bearing his weight through the blizzard, trying to keep Fel safe from the dangers of the Fade …

 

_Like all those parents they tell us about, in training, who think they can keep their children from the Circles and keep them safe_ _… and end up as cautionary tales about houses filled with corpses and screams …._

 

“Hush,” Vivienne said to Fel, and Fel kicked her in the shin.

 

Vivienne was not called Madame De Fer for nothing — she didn’t even flinch, although perhaps her lips pressed together a little more tightly for an instant. “Inquisitor,” she said, “I have sent for Templars from the White Spire. I am afraid this child has fallen to possession.”

 

“She hasn’t!” Killeen said, and from where he was suddenly perched atop the dining table in amidst the trays and platters of food, Cole chimed in, “She isn’t, you know.”

 

“Forgive me for being unswayed by the opinion of an uneducated non-mage and a demon,” Vivienne said.

 

“I’m more _educated_ in the school of Fel than you’ll ever be,” Killeen snapped. Her hand was on her sword-hilt, the blade half drawn. “Take your _hand_ off her, Lady Vivienne, I won’t ask again.”

 

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “You would draw against your Divine?”

 

“I’d draw against the fucking Maker Himself for the sake of that girl,” Killeen said evenly. “She’s not an Abomination. I stake my life on it.”

 

_She can_ _’t know. None of us can know_.

 

_How could she think_ _… why would she keep it secret from me? How did she think this would end?_

 

He could not believe she’d be so foolish, that her judgement could ever be so poor, as to think concealing a mage-child —

 

But Killeen’s face was utterly calm, her voice completely certain. And her judgement, in all the years he’d known her, had never been other than impeccable. It was why he signed anything she put in front of him, why she was the one person whose opinion he sought when a decision was too closely balanced for an easy choice — why he had asked her to come with him from Kirkwall to Haven in the first place.

 

Cullen took a step to his left, opening enough space between them that a single spell wouldn’t hit them both, and put his hand to his own sword. “ _My_ squire, Divine Victoria.”

 

“Vivienne,” the Inquisitor said softly.

 

“Inquisitor,” Lady Vivienne said. “This is a Chantry matter.”

 

“Evelyn,” Josephine said quietly.

 

“ _My_ Commander’s squire,” Lady Trevelyan said, ignoring her diplomat. “Formally arranged, I understand, with the Arl of Redcliffe.”

 

“Do you really think that Arl Teagan would argue that a mage-child should be left unchecked?” Vivienne countered. “Perhaps you should ask _Alexander_ what happened when that decision was taken in Redcliffe Castle itself.”

 

“Well, now,” Alistair said. “That was, um, a fairly particular circumstance.”

 

“An all-too-common one when proper precautions aren’t taken,” Vivienne retorted.

 

“Not in this case,” Alistair said. He shrugged. “Since you know I was there for what happened to Connor and Arl Eamon, I’m sure you also know — ex-Templar, retired Grey Warden, at your service. The child’s not possessed. There’s a presence, yes — but not a demon.”

 

“Al— _exander_?” Fel said.

 

“I think we’re past that, sweetheart,” Alistair said.

 

“She wants to know, have you learnt to mend your own shirts yet?”

 

The colour drained from Alistair’s face and his mouth dropped open. “Wynne?”

 

“She remembers,” Fel said. “She hopes you’ve learnt to wash your socks, too.”

 

“My socks.” Alistair ran his hand through his hair. “After all we … it’s the socks. Of course.” He caught his breath and went on unsteadily.  “Story of my life, really. I knew I should have stayed in Kirkwall.”

 

“And —” Fel said.

 

“Oh, Maker, _stop!_ ” Alistair burst out. He turned away from them, then turned back and seized a goblet from the table.

 

“Alistair —” Cullen said as the other man raised the goblet to his lips.

 

“Vivienne, your skirt’s on fire,” the Inquisitor said.

 

Everyone, including Alistair, turned to look. Cullen caught a glimpse of Stanton hastily retreating backwards under the table as the Divine’s long skirt flared from smoldering to flame.

 

The air tingled with spells as both the Inquisitor and Vivienne smothered the flames with ice, but in that instant of Vivienne’s distraction Fel squirmed free of her hold and hurled herself across the room to Killeen.

 

Killeen caught her up, holding her on one hip, her other hand on her sword. “Fel and I are leaving,” she said. “Any Templar, or any circle mage, who comes near her, will have their nose split to their ears. Clear?”

 

“Lieutenant,” Vivienne said, “you have no _idea_ the danger you’re in.”

 

“I’m from fucking Kirkwall,” Killeen said. “There were days when I saw more Abominations before breakfast than you’ve seen in your entire life.” She began to back towards the door. “You’ve saved my life, more than once, and I thank you for it. I’m sure you’re doing what you think is right. But if you try and touch Fel again, I’ll cut your hands off. Cole, get the door.”

 

Cullen moved back with her, covering her left side.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alistair falling back with them, armed with a knife he’d seized from the table.

 

“Killer,” Varric said. “You sure about this?”

 

“On my life,” Killeen said.

 

Bianca tumbled into Varric’s hands and a bolt clicked into place. “No offence, your Divineness,” the dwarf said, “but I’m from Kirkwall, too.”

 

“Evelyn,” Vivienne said.  Cullen noted uneasily that sparks of ice were crawling around her hands. “I understand what we both owe each other. But there are some things that go beyond friendship. I will not — I _cannot_ — leave a mage-child that powerful, already trapped by a demon’s promises, unchecked.”

 

“I’ll check her, if need be,” the Inquisitor said. “Vivienne, you and I once took on seven fully-fledged demons at once, by ourselves, and won.”

 

“Yes,” Vivienne said. “They had come through from the Fade. They were not married to a mage, with a mage’s powers. With _this_ mage’s powers. She is already drawing on the power they promise her, Evelyn. You have no idea of what she is capable of, what _it_ will be capable of.”

 

The Inquisitor turned to look at Fel. “Is that true, child?” she asked. “You’re taking power from the denizens of the Fade?”

 

“Only Cole’s friend,” Fel said. “Not any of the others. Not even when Cullen was almost dying! Kill said not to!”

 

“If this Wynne, or the spirit that accompanied her, it’s a good one,” Alistair said.

 

“You have only a demon’s word that it is,” Vivienne said.

 

“What’s the odds a malicious demon would have been hanging around at exactly the right moment to hear me ask Wynne to patch my shirt?” Alistair said.

 

“How many innocent lives are you going to gamble on those odds?” Vivienne asked.

 

“ _He_ _’s_ not gambling anything,” the Inquisitor said. “The girl is Cullen’s squire. Cullen is my Commander. That makes her _also_ under my command. My people, my decision. And I trust Cole.” Vivienne opened her mouth to protest and Lady Trevelyan raised her hand. “ _And_ I trust the Templars among my soldiers. She will be watched, and guarded, and any decision will be made after due consideration.”

 

There was a pause. “If she is properly guarded,” Vivienne said, “then I agree.”

 

_For now_ hung unspoken in the air.


	98. In The Corridor - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a conversation.

_28th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

Killeen carried Fel out of the dining room and up the stairs, careful to hold the girl gently. It took deliberate effort, because every instinct she had urged her to crush Fel to her, clasp her close with all the strength of her arms.

 

Cullen was behind her, and behind him —

 

Two Templars, assigned by the Inquisitor.

 

Killeen knew Lady Trevelyan had done so solely to appease Vivienne.  She _knew_ that all the Templars who were in the Inquisition’s forces were good men and women, were like Cullen, were _nothing_ like Meredith, nothing like the worst of Kirkwall’s Templars.

 

Still, there was a part of her deeper than logic could reach that was utterly, coldly furious with the Inquisitor for setting Templars to watch her Fel, that was ready to tear those two Templars behind Cullen limb from limb if they so much as _looked_ at Fel in a way she didn’t like.

 

That wanted to hold Fel so tightly no-one, not even the Inquisitor, could make her let go, and carry her straight out the door and down the street and all the way to the other side of Thedas.

 

 _If it wasn_ _’t midwinter, I might just try_.

 

But it _was_ midwinter, and so Killeen held Fel gently, and carried her carefully up the stairs and into the room where she’d changed her clothes earlier that evening.

 

Cullen followed her in. The Templars seemed to be about to — and Cullen shut the door in their faces.

 

Killeen felt the knot in her chest loosen a little. She sat down on the bed with Fel in her arms and settled the girl in her lap. “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetling,” she said.

 

Fel’s arms were tight around her neck. “I don’t want them to take me away.”

 

“No-one is taking you anywhere,” Killeen said firmly.

 

“Killeen …” Cullen said quietly, and at the troubled look on his face Killeen felt the knot draw so tight she could hardly breathe. “This is not something to decide tonight.”

 

“I’m not deciding it tonight,” Killeen said. “I decided on the island. Fel doesn’t want to go to a Circle, so I won’t allow her to be taken to one.”

 

He sat down on the bed beside her, and put his hand gently on Fel’s back. “I know it’s a frightening idea,” he said, “but —”

 

Fel sat up a little a glared at him. “You promised me you wouldn’t send me away!” she cried.  “You promised you wouldn’t send me anywhere I didn’t want to go, and I don’t want! I don’t!”

 

“Cubling, I …” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you were a mage, when I made that promise.”

 

“I’m still me!” Fel said. “And it was a _real_ promise, you know it was!”

 

“Being a mage is very special,” Cullen said. “But it’s very dangerous, too. You need to be taught, so you will be safe. I can’t teach you that. Killeen can’t.”

 

“I _am_ safe!” Fel said. “Cole’s friend can _keep_ me safe!”

 

“Just because Cole is trustworthy, doesn’t mean he isn’t mistaken,” Cullen said. “Cubling, I know this is hard to understand. But I’ve seen what can happen to mages, especially to children, when they’re not taught properly.”

 

 _Not something to decide tonight, Andraste_ _’s freckled arse-cheeks. He’s talking himself into deciding right_ now _._

_Oh no, my beautiful, stupid darling. You_ _’re a better man than this and I will make you realise it if I have to knock your head against the wall to do it._

 

Carefully, gently, Killeen lifted Fel off her lap and set her on the bed. “Sweetheart, Ser Bear and I need to have a short conversation, all right? We’ll be right back.”

 

Fel clung to her. “What if the Templars come while you’re gone?”

 

“I’ll kill them for you,” Cole said, kneeling by the fire.

 

Cullen opened his mouth, and then closed it. Killeen saw him realise that any Templars who entered Fel’s room uninvited would _not_ be with the Inquisition.

 

She untangled Fel’s fingers from her shirt. “We will be _right back_ , I promise, and Cole will be here while we’re gone. You’re safe.”

 

Standing, she took Cullen’s arm in a firm grip. “Let’s step outside,” she said, and hauled him to the door without giving him a chance to disagree.

 

The Templars had taken up position on either side of the door. “Go stand further down the hall,” Killeen told them.

 

“Ser, our orders are —”

 

“ _Cullen,_ ” Killeen said between gritted teeth.

 

“Further down the hall,” Cullen said. “That’s your _current_ order.”

 

“Ser!” they chorused, and obediently moved away, then a little further away at Killeen’s glare.

 

Once they were out of earshot, Killeen turned to Cullen. “I can’t believe you’re even _considering_ sending her away.”

 

He sighed, and closed his eyes a moment. “Can’t you? We talked about it, remember? You know it’s a choice I’d make, even for a child of our own, and you _know_ why.”

 

“I know you promised me you’d find another way,” Killeen said. “Or was that like your promise not to send Fel away if she didn’t want to go?”

 

“I promised to _look_ for another way, and I will, Killeen, I swear it. But in the meantime … she’s untrained, and Vivienne says she’s powerful, and already treating with the creatures of the Fade.” He reached out to trace one of the scars that ran down her cheek.  “ _You know_ what that can lead to. _You know_ what she could do, without proper guidance, without proper guard.”

 

Killeen jerked her head back from his touch. “And what do _you_ think she’ll do if you cage her, Cullen?  This is _Fel_ we’re talking about. She’d do everything she can to escape and how much _more_ danger do you think that’ll put her in? Or make her be? If you want to find the one thing most likely to make that child turn to blood magic, lock her in a cell.” She paused. “I would, in her place.”

 

His eyes went wide with shock. “Killeen!”

 

She folded her arms. “Well, I _would_. If I’d been in Kirkwall’s Circle — Cullen, do you really ever think about what happened there? To the apprentices, the mages, the Tranquil?”

 

“I _know_ what happened,” he said. “Everyone does. It all came out, afterwards. There were trials, for those still living.”

 

“Yes, but do you ever really _think_ about it?” Killeen said. “About what it was like for them? About what it would be like if it happened to you, or to me?  I do.  I think about it. And I tell you, Cullen, I would have done anything, any crime, any dark magic, to make something like that _stop_. Dealt with demons, even.” She turned to look at him. “And what happens if you send Fel to a Circle and it turns out to be like Kirkwall’s? Or turns _into_ Kirkwall’s, in a few years, or ten, or twenty? What do you think _she_ _’d_ do?”

 

“It wouldn’t —”

 

“Are you willing to take that risk? Because by the Maker, Cullen, I’m not.”  She paused. “She knows what can happen. She’s already terrified. What happens when they come to drag her away? What happens when she’s shut up somewhere she can’t get away from?”

 

“They can prevent her using her magic until she —”

 

“Oh, _that_ _’ll_ make a mage feel safe,” Killeen said.

 

“You shouldn’t have told her,” Cullen said. “About Kirkwall. It isn’t going to happen to her, and being afraid — it’s not going to make it easier on her.”

 

“I _didn_ _’t_ ,” Killeen said. “And she wasn’t afraid on the island — she just didn’t want to be sent away to be locked up, and I don’t blame her for it. Cullen, _think_. Cole says this spirit with her was with Wynne, the Hero’s Wynne. And he says that Wynne was in the White Spire with his friends. Now, I don’t know what happened in the White Spire, or what that spirit saw there …”

 

Cullen closed his eyes, and Killeen saw beads of sweat spring out at his hairline. “She died of what he did to her,” he murmured to himself.

 

“Cullen?” She touched his hand.

 

He opened his eyes. “I can guess. Some of it, anyway. Cole has said … some things. I don’t know if it was as bad as Kirkwall — as bad as I let it become at Kirkwall — but it wasn’t good. Maker, if Fel thinks she’s being sent to _that_ …”

 

Killeen pressed her advantage. “You can’t guarantee she _isn_ _’t_.”

 

Cullen scrubbed a hand over his face, and then ran his fingers through his hair. “What alternative do you see? Take her home, cross our fingers and _hope_ she escapes all the hazards that wait for untrained, Apostate mages?”

 

“Why _untrained_?” Killeen asked. “Don’t we live in the heart of an Inquisition _run_ by a mage? You and I don’t know how to guide her, true — but Dorian will.  The Inquisitor will — she might be Circle-trained but she didn’t exactly hot-foot it back to one as soon as she got the chance, did she? The Grand Enchantress is still at Skyhold, as are a fair number of the rebel mages. _And_ the place has more Templars than a mid-sized Circle.”

 

“That’s true,” Cullen said slowly.

 

 “It’s practically, for all intents and purposes, a Circle itself. Isn’t it?”

 

“I suppose it could be viewed that way.”

 

“I bet Lady Montilyet could persuade the Divine Victoria to view it that way,” Killeen said. “She can’t want to go toe-to-toe with the Inquisitor over one of the Inquisition’s people — and Evelyn won’t relish the idea of letting Fel be dragged off screaming over both our objections.” She paused. “It will be _both_ our objections, won’t it, Cullen?”

 

“Yes,” he said, and Killeen could see the relief in his eyes. _There you are, my darling, good man.  There you are._

 

She smiled. “Then let’s tell Fel.”

 

She turned to the door but Cullen stopped her with a hand on her arm. “ Thank you.”

 

Killeen covered his fingers with her own. “For saving you from your own idiocy?”

 

“For not threatening to leave me if I made the wrong decision,” Cullen said. As her mouth opened, he went on, “Oh, I know you would have. But thank you for not using it as a weapon to win the argument.”

 

 _Oh, my darling man._ She cupped the nape of his neck and drew him close for a kiss. “I wouldn’t have left you, you idiot,” she said. “I would have taken you with us. Oh, I might have had to sling you belly-down, bound and gagged, over Steelheart’s back so you didn’t give Fel and me away, but I would have taken you with us.”

 

He smiled. “Uncomfortable. But it would have saved me the trouble of tracking you down.”

 

“Fel and her spirit would have taken care of your bruises,” Killeen said.

 

Cullen paused, hand on the doorknob. “I knew another healer who drew on a spirit,” he said. “His name was Anders.”

 

“Cullen,” Killeen said, “do you really think that if Fel decided to blow up the world, lack of magic would stop her?” As he laughed softly, she added, “Also, I don’t know if you noticed your nephew setting fire to the Divine?”

 

“I did observe something of the sort,” Cullen said.

 

“Good eye for a diversion, that boy,” Killeen said. “But perhaps a word about discretion wouldn’t go astray.”

 

“I seem to recall you threatening to cut off the Divine Victoria’s hands,” Cullen pointed out.

 

“That’s a fair point,” Killeen admitted. “Cullen — do you ever wonder if we’re going to be, uh, good examples for any children we raise?”

 

He opened the door, and circled her waist with one arm, drawing her with him into the room. “I certainly hope that any son or daughter of mine would grow up to willing to face down the most powerful mage in Orlais for someone they love,” he said. “So, yes, I do think that you, at least, are the best possible example any child could have.” He kissed her temple, and then turned to Fel. “Cubling, Killeen’s made me see sense. You’re coming to Skyhold with us.”

 

The girl leapt off the bed and flung herself across the room and into Cullen’s arms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so they lived happily ever after ... or *did* they? Thirteen more chapters to come .


	99. In The Bedroom - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a number of conversations

_28th - 29th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

It was not quite as simple as that, of course.

 

Once Cullen had left Killeen watching over Fel and gone to put her arguments to the Inquisitor, Evelyn and Josephine had to do a fair bit of what the Inquisitor called _fast talking_ and Lady Montilyet termed _articulate negotiation_ to placate Vivienne. Cullen had wondered, watching Vivienne’s serene, unreadable face as the argument went on into the small hours of the morning, just what memories were behind the mage’s dark brown eyes to leave her so very wary of the possibility of Abominations.

 

 _She will never tell me_ , he knew. _She may never tell anyone, if it_ _’s very bad._

 

_Madame de Fer affords herself no weaknesses._

Eventually, some sort of deal was done. Fel would be watched by Inquisition Templars until they all left Orlais — as quickly as could be managed. She would be under the guard of Templars and the tutelage of _reliable_ mages — by which Vivienne no doubt meant _not Dorian, and most definitely not Solas if he ever turned up again._

She would not, in future, travel from Skyhold without a Templar escort.

 

Much of it, Cullen considered largely sensible. He had no doubt that, once they reached Skyhold, _under guard of Templars_ would turn out to be quite a lot more relaxed than Vivienne had in mind, and he personally didn’t much want Fel travelling from Skyhold at _all_ for the next while, given she’d been nearly drowned, ship-wrecked with a dragon for company, and half-frozen on _this_ trip.

 

Stanton, the Inquisitor had told him, had been fed, checked for injuries by both herself and Vivienne, and sent to bed.

 

When Cullen looked in on him on his way to tell Fel and Killeen what had been decided, however, Stanton had not _gone_ to bed.  Once more in his own clothes, he knelt before a candle he’d set on the hearthstone.

 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” he murmured. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

 

Cullen cleared his throat, so as not to startle the lad, and crossed to kneel beside his nephew. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

 

“I’ve been praying for Fel to be safe,” Stanton said quietly.

 

“And I’m sure it helped, lad,” Cullen said. “It’s agreed she’ll come back to Skyhold, and not be sent to a Circle.”

 

Stanton smiled. “That’s good. And she’s not possessed?”

 

“No. She’ll always be in danger, Stanton — all mages are — but she’ll be guarded against it, and taught to guard herself.”

 

“Some people say …” Stanton said, and then stopped.

 

Cullen turned to look down at him. “What is it?”

 

“Some people say Andraste Herself was a mage,” the boy blurted, and then hurried on, “I know it’s heresy. Her powers came from the Maker.”

 

“We are all the Maker’s children. All that we are comes from Him, and that includes mages and their powers,” Cullen said. “Andraste worked miracles by His will. How He made that will manifest … none of us know, now.” He smiled. “But I wouldn’t mention that to the sisters at the South Reach Chantry.”

 

“No,” Stanton said so fervently that Cullen chuckled. “But, Uncle … don’t mages’ powers come from the Fade? Fel said a spirit was helping her.”

 

“Mages have their own power, to a greater or lesser degree,” Cullen said. “Like … like soldiers have their own strength, to a greater or lesser degree, depending on what they were born with and how much training they’ve done.” Stanton nodded to show he understood. “When they use that power, it takes time to come back, just like if you fight all day, it takes time for your muscles to recover. Mages can take lyrium philters, to restore their power quickly, like soldiers can take potions to keep fighting when they’re exhausted. But mages can also take power from other places, too. You heard the Inquisitor talking about how powerful that woman was tonight, because she’d been using blood magic. That’s one way, a very evil way. Another way is to let a creature in the Fade give it to you. Most of them that offer don’t mean well, Stanton, not at all. They want a way into this world, to cause … trouble. Sometimes a great deal of trouble.  But there are some that want to help. Cole says the spirit with Fel is one of those, and he … knows a great deal about the Fade. A powerful spirit, with a powerful mage, is a strong combination.”

 

“Then why didn’t _she_ set the Divine on fire?” Stanton asked.

 

Cullen chuckled. “It was brave to do that, and I was glad for the diversion. And I doubt Fel _could_ do that. Her gift is for healing, and the spirit with her — if Cole and Alistair are right — is a spirit that used to be with a very great healer. Fel will probably learn to do other kinds of magic, but never as well as healing, and she’ll have to study. Does that make sense?”

 

Stanton nodded — and then yawned.

 

“Bed for you, lad,” Cullen said, ruffling his hair. He stood, and winced a little at the stiffness in his knees. “And for me. We may well be on the road in the morning.”

 

Leaving Stanton to sleep, Cullen went to tell Fel and Killeen the news.

 

He found them both asleep on top of the covers, Killeen curled protectively around Fel and Ser Calenhad keeping watch over both of them.

 

Sitting down on the foot of the bed, he took off his boots, then began to unlace Killeen’s.

 

She stirred, opened one eye.

 

“Sleep,” he said softly. “It’s all settled. She’s to come to Skyhold with us when we leave.”

 

“Good,” Killeen muttered as he drew off the first boot. “Thanks.”

 

“Self-interest,” he said, pulling off the other and setting them by the head of the bed where she’d reach for them in the morning. “I don’t want to wake up with bruised shins.”

 

“Not for that,” Killeen said. She disentangled one arm from Fel and held out her hand to him. “Come here, my love.”

 

Cullen laced his fingers through hers and let her draw him down to lie beside her. “It’s a shame we have company,” he whispered.

 

Killeen smiled. “And a witness,” she said, glancing at Ser Calenhad. “She was terrified, Cullen, we can’t leave her alone.”

 

“I know.” He settled against her more comfortably, tired enough to be content at her closeness rather than unbearably frustrated. “Having you in my arms is enough.”

 

Killeen chuckled. “For now …” she murmured, sounding on the edge of sleep.

 

“For now,” Cullen agreed, his eyes closing. He heard her breathing shift to the slow evenness of slumber, and a moment later followed her.

 

In the morning, however, the lack of privacy was more of an irritant. Fel refused to be separated from Killeen, though, and Cullen could understand that, given the scare she’d had, _which I had no small part in_. She was just a child, and she’d been through more in the past months than many had to face in a whole lifetime.

 

He could not bundle her unceremoniously out into the hall, however much his baser self wished to.

 

Cold water in the water closet helped subdue the most visible evidence of his frustration, although the knowing look Killeen gave him when he emerged almost undid the effect.

 

“I’ll find out if we’re leaving,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, and went downstairs.

 

They were not, it turned out, leaving — not until the next day. The Inquisitor wanted to reprovision before they took to the roads, given both the weather and the bad harvest.

 

That was the excuse, anyway. Listening to Josephine talking excitedly over breakfast — which Killeen and Fel took in their room — about the opportunity to visit  Val Royeaux’s merchants, Cullen suspected that even if their company had been laden down with more supplies than they could carry, Lady Trevelyan would have found a reason to stay another day. 

 

Vivienne, it turned out, had removed herself to her country estate at first light.

 

Cullen wondered just what had been said between the Divine and the Inquisitor after he had left the room. _And how long it will take for either of them to forget it_.

 

Not long, he hoped. He owed them both a great deal — Killeen’s life, his own — and, despite Vivienne’s imperious manner, he knew that both mages had learnt to like and trust each other in the last months before Corypheus was defeated.

 

_I doubt the Divine Victoria has so many friends she can spare one and not notice the loss._

_I know the Inquisitor hasn_ _’t._

 

“And you’ll have shopping to do, Curly,” Varric said, interrupting his train of thought.

 

Cullen blinked. “I will?”

 

“I didn’t see a ring on Killer’s finger last night,” Varric said.

 

“Oh, _Cullen_ ,” Lady Trevelyan said. “You haven’t asked her yet?”

 

“We’ve been a little busy,” he said mildly. “With a dragon, among other things. And don’t call her that anymore, Varric. She doesn’t like it.”

 

“How long does it take to say _will you marry me_?” the Inquisitor asked. “I mean, you could blurt it out between parries, if you wanted to.”

 

“I haven’t found the right ring,” Cullen said. “Cassandra seemed to think that was very important. You don’t happen to know of any abandoned temples near here, do you?”

 

“Trust me, Curly, you’ll be in as much danger trying to bargain with the shop-keepers in the market here as plumbing the depths of some crumbling ruin,” Varric said.

 

Josephine clapped her hands together. “I’m sure you’ll find exactly the right one!” she said. “The merchants here stock the most _exquisite_ things. I will help you look.”

 

“We’ll _all_ help you look,” Lady Trevelyan said firmly. “To make sure you don’t chicken out.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Blackwall said.  “I’m for a hot fire and a bottle of brandy.”

 

“Sounds about right,” Varric said. “I want to get Kill— _een_ _’s_ account of what happened to you.” He winked at Cullen. “That’ll keep her out of your hair while you’re working up your courage.”

 

Which was how Cullen found himself being towed around the marketplace of Val Royeaux by two slightly-built and extremely determined women.

 

First, of course, there were Satinalia gifts to buy. Those were relatively easy: a fine whetstone for Stanton, against the day he’d have his own sword to care for; a pack for Fel, with numerous pockets, any one of which could fit Ser Calenhand; and for Killeen, a pair of fine, soft woollen socks, because _all proper soldiers take proper care of their feet._

Then the difficult part of the morning began.  The jewellery on offer was, as Josephine had declared, exquisite. It was also horrifyingly expensive, enough to make a substantial hole in Cullen’s savings, despite the Inquisitor’s generosity with the Inquisition’s treasure and profits. _Not that I mind, exactly_ , he thought, surveying another tray which flashed with jewels. _But if I_ _’m going to spend this much money, I’d rather it be on a ring I can actually imagine Killeen wearing._

“None of these suit?” the Inquisitor asked.

 

Cullen shook his head. “I — Killeen doesn’t wear jewellery. I have no idea what she’d like. In a sword, yes. In a ring ...”

 

“But this one is beautiful!” Josephine said, lifting a ring from the tray and holding it so the sunlight struck the diamonds and sapphires encrusting the band.

 

“It is,” Cullen admitted. “But would Killeen think so? And could she even get her gauntlets on over it?”

 

“Oh!” Lady Trevelyan said. She tucked her hand through the crook of Cullen’s elbow. “We’re looking in entirely the wrong shop. Come on!”

 

Cullen politely suppressed a sigh as she towed him across the square, through an archway, and into another shop.

 

It was not, he realised, a jeweller’s. Polearms stood racked against the wall, and swords hung on display. 

 

“Hello, Barnabus!” Lady Trevelyan said. “We’d like to look at your rings.”

 

“Of course, your Worship,” the shopkeeper said with a bow. “I have some excellent stock. Attack or defence?”

 

“Either,” the Inquisitor said. “But — not for me, not for a mage. For a fighter.”

 

Barnabus bowed again, and produced a tray of rings.

 

They were very different from the ones they’d looked at before. Although many were set with gems or precious stones, they were not highly polished and positioned to catch the light, but securely within the metal of the ring itself. Instead of sparkling, the rings glimmered faintly.

 

And when Cullen touched one, he felt the tingle of magic.

 

They were, he realised, no casual adornment. A man or woman would wear one of these rings, not to display wealth or accentuate beauty, but because the enchantment worked into the fabric of the jewellery would give just that more chance of avoiding a deadly blow — or dealing one.

 

And _that_ sort of ring, he could very well imagine Killeen wearing.

 

“Thank you,” he said to Lady Trevelyan. “These are … this was a good idea.”

 

As he said it, one of the rings on the tray caught his eye. It had no jewel at all, simply a plain grey band, but when he lifted it Cullen discovered that was because the whole ring was carved from a single semi-precious stone — a deep grey stone, veined with darker threads.

 

It was the exact colour of Killeen’s eyes.

 

“This one,” he said. “How much?”

 

The price Barnabus named made him wince. It would beggar him.

 

 _But I have to have it_.

 

He was about to open his mouth to say _All right_ when Lady Trevelyan put her hand on his arm.

 

“Now, Barnabus,” she said reprovingly, “after all the custom I’ve brought your way this last year. Not to mention the fact that there’d be no trade at all if the Inquisition hadn’t closed all those rifts and laid all those demons and ended the war between —”

 

“Your Worship, I am not ungrateful!” Barnabus said. “That is why I named only the price I paid for that piece, with no profit for myself.”

 

Lady Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

 

“Perhaps a little profit,” Barnabus admitted. “I must feed my children, your Worship!”

 

“Your _child_ is twenty-two and runs his own stall in Skyhold,” the Inquisitor said. “How _much_ profit?”

 

“Just a tiny, a little, a smidgen of an amount,” Barnabas said. 

 

“ _How_ much?” Lady Trevelyan persisted.

 

Barnabus sighed, and named a much more reasonable price, at least, one that was closer to the extravagantly expensive jewellery in the stalls outside.

 

Cullen, relieved, was about to agree to it, but Lady Trevelyan wasn’t done. In fact, by the time Cullen found himself back outside, the ring tucked securely in his pocket, he’d paid less than he would have for one of the unsuitable, non-magical rings Josephine had admired.

 

“There,” the Inquisitor said, taking his arm again. “That’s the first step. Now, let’s get some lunch, and you can practice asking her. Josie and I will score you.”

 

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen muttered. “Inquisitor, I don’t think — ”

 

“ _I_ do,” she said implacably, and Cullen found himself borne away.

 

 

 

 


	100. In The Bathhouse - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things do not go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. And apologies to William Shakespeare!

 

_29th Harvestmere_

 

 

* * *

 

_I_ _’m going to have nightmares about that lunch_ , Cullen thought as he made his way back to the Divine Victoria’s city residence, having left Josephine and Evelyn to continue shopping.

 

About to mount the steps to the front door, he stopped dead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought so casually about the idea of nightmares. _Before Kinloch, surely._

_Before I knew what nightmares truly are._

 

And yet here he was, walking through a crowded city without looking for a demon in every shadow, looking back over the utter embarrassment of being coached in the best ways of proposing marriage by Her Blessed Worship, Herald of Andraste and Grand Inquisitor of Thedas and thinking in passing, _I_ _’m going to have nightmares about that._

 

Cullen touched his pocket to reassure himself the ring hadn’t fallen out in the past ten seconds, and ran lightly up the stairs.

 

He had so clearly imagined that Killeen and Fel would be in their room, that he would go down on one knee and produce the ring and say the words the Inquisitor and Lady Montilyet had drilled into him, that when he opened the door and the room was empty he actually found himself looking in the armoire for them before he got a grip on himself. _Varric wanted to talk to Killeen_ , he remember. _They_ _’re probably in the library._

Varric and Blackwall were in the library; so were Fel and Cole, and Ser Calenhad of course, but not Killeen.

 

_It_ _’s a sign from the Maker. I’m not meant to ask her, not yet._

_I might be free of Kinloch, but not free enough._

_The Maker knows the demon sleeps — sleeps soundly, these days, but only sleeps._

 

“What’s the matter, Curly?” Varric asked, looking up from his papers. “You look like someone stole your sweetroll.”

 

“I was looking for Killeen,” Cullen said.

 

“Bathhouse,” Varric said. He glanced at Fel. “The butler has a key, if you want to lock the door behind you.”

 

“Thank you,” Cullen said, aware his voice was a little more fervent than was perhaps required. He left Varric chuckling, and went to find the butler and get both the key and directions. 

 

_Bathhouse_ implied a separate structure, but in fact, he was directed to a room toward the back of lowest floor of the house. He slipped inside, and then locked the door behind him. “Killeen? It’s me.”

 

“Over here,” she called, her voice echoing a little.

 

As he stepped out of the entryway, Cullen could see why. The room was sizeable, and entirely marble. Benches were set along the walls, but apart from them the room’s only furnishing was a huge pool in the centre, brimming with gently steaming water, and the fountain at one end of it pouring an unceasing stream of water into the pool.

 

Killeen rested her arms on the edge of the pool. Cullen saw that she’d left her dagger within arm’s reach and guessed she’d gone for it when she heard the door. “Varric told me you were here,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I joined you.”

 

“Very much the opposite of mind,” Killeen said.

 

“I’ve locked the door.”

 

She smiled. “Then why do you still have all those clothes on?”

 

He shed them with alacrity, retaining just enough presence of mind to make sure the pocket with the ring was carefully folded inward, slipped into the water and took her in his arms.

 

Killeen wound her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his — and the buoyancy of the water and the slippery tiles on the bottom of the pool put them both off balance. With a splash, they went under.

 

Killeen surfaced laughing. “Andraste’s tits! All those novels of Varric don’t mention the danger of drowning. I’m beginning to feel like the Maker enjoys putting obstacles in our way.”

 

It was close enough to Cullen’s own earlier fears that his own smile died and his cock softened.

 

“Cullen?” Killeen asked.

 

_Don_ _’t be a fool. The Maker, in His grace, brought us together. It is His will that we_ be _together._

_Ask her. Just ask her._

 

The words he had learned at such cost of embarrassment deserted him.

 

“Cullen?”

 

_Say something.  What did Cassandra say? Poetry? Maker, do I even_ know _any poems? I must. I_ _’ve read some, I know I have. Something must have stuck. A line, just a line, will do._

 

Words swam up from the depth of memory. “Shall I, um. Compare thee to a summer’s day?”

 

Killeen regarded him suspiciously. “Are you trying to tell me I have nits?”

 

Cullen gaped at her. “What? No! Why would you think that?”

 

“Summer, midges, gnats, swarms of insects everywhere … are you trying to drop a hint?”

 

“Not _everywhere_ ,” Cullen said. “Skyhold doesn’t have midges.”

 

“Skyhold doesn’t have _summer_. Shall I compare thee to a barely tolerable day in the frozen armpit of Thedas?”

 

“The weather in Skyhold in Justinian is …” Cullen stopped, trying to work out how to regain control of the conversation.

 

“I wish you hadn’t mentioned nits,” Killeen said, scratching her head.

 

“I didn’t mention nits!” Cullen protested. “You were the one who said —”

 

She scratched again. “Now I’m itchy.”

 

Cullen closed his eyes briefly, and gave up. _I doubt even one of Varric_ _’s smooth-talking heroes could prevail in the face of Killeen._ I _most certainly have_ no _chance._ “You don’t have lice, Killeen.”

 

She paddled herself around in the water until her back was to him. “Check for me, would you?”

 

Resignedly, he ran his fingers through the smooth strands, and then parted them to see the roots of her hair. “No lice.”

 

“Keep looking,” she instructed.

 

Obediently, he continued checking, gently working tangles free, tracing along her scalp with his fingertips. Killeen murmured with pleasure at his touch, and leaned back against him, bobbing gently in the water, anchoring herself with one leg wound through his. The slight, teasing friction, the water lapping around them both … Cullen felt his cock harden again, heard his own breath coming faster.

 

As he worked his way through her hair to the nape of her neck Killeen gave a soft sigh. “Oh, that’s nice. I should get nits more often.”

 

“You don’t have nits,” Cullen whispered, and felt her shiver as his lips touched her ear.  

 

She reached back to cup the nape of his neck in her hand. “I know,” she whispered back. “But you urgently needed a distraction.”

 

“Consider me distracted,” he said, and she gave a low chuckle.

 

“Let’s not risk drowning, though,” she said, slipping from his grip.

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. He turned and grasped the lip of the pool, hoisting himself out, turning as he did to avoid painful contact between his erection and the tiles. Sitting on the edge of the pool, he extended a hand to Killeen, meaning to haul her up beside him —

 

She was standing in front of his knees, level with his cock, pupils so dilated in the dim light and by her desire they were almost black.

 

His cock gave an urgent throb, twitched, and she caught her breath, mouth opening in a gasp almost exactly as if she was about to lean forward and take him in her mouth.

 

Except she wasn’t, never would, because she knew it would wake the demon he’d brought to her bed.

 

Just as he could never find the words to ask her to bind her life to his while he was still himself bound by the memories of Kinloch.

 

_Bound by the memories, or by the fear of the memories?_ Cullen was no longer sure he knew the difference.

 

Slowly, he opened his knees a little, unspoken invitation. Killeen hesitated, then moved closer, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh, fingers tracing the muscles of his legs and sliding up to cup his buttocks. Just that, no more, her tongue tracing circles on the skin first one side, then the other, until Cullen’s legs opened wider, unbidden, muscles loosening and she kissed her way a little higher, where the skin was more sensitive, every touch of her lips sending a pulse of heat straight to the base of his spine. 

 

She was close enough to his cock that he could feel her breath brushing over the tip.  His hands lifted to push her away, but this was Killeen, who would never harm him, _Killeen_ , who he trusted with his life and his soul.

 

He whispered her name, and she looked up at him. He took her hand in his, wrapped it around his cock. “Yes,” he said softly. “Please.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” he said, although he wasn’t. _But I have to know. I have at least to know._

 

Killeen stroked him slowly, firmly, and then leaned forward to lick him, base to tip. For a moment Cullen could think of nothing but his fear of how it would feel, of _what_ he would feel, of what he would remember, and then Killeen took him in her mouth and he lost himself in the sensation of her lips around him, her tongue working against his length, her strong, calloused hands braced against his thighs, the damp strands of her dark hair swaying as she leaned forward and back, forward and back, in friction and suction and heat —

 

“Yes,” he heard someone say hoarsely, “yes, Maker, please —” and realised it was his own voice as his hips lifted involuntarily, as the building heat and pressure tipped over into inevitability. His eyes closed and he thrust against her mouth, thrust again and lightning blasted through him, white light behind his eyelids and a release so powerful it seared his bones to ash, tearing a shout from him as he felt her mouth and throat work as she swallowed his seed, draining him utterly.

 

He sank back to the marble floor, feet still dangling in the water. Someone nearby was weeping, sobs echoing off the hard walls, and as Killeen hoisted herself from the water, saying frantically, “Cullen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he felt his cheeks wet with tears and realised it was himself. With each heaving gasp, something inside him that had been twisted into a knot for so long he’d learned not to notice it eased, and loosened, and began to dissolve.   

 

Raising himself on one elbow, he reached for Killeen, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face against her shoulder, feeling her fingers twining through his hair, her other hand rubbing his back.

 

“I thought you wanted — Cullen, I —”

 

He managed to get enough breath to say, “I love you. I love you.”

 

“I know. I love you too. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” The last of that long-carried tension left him and he sighed with the relief of it, left so bonelessly limp he couldn’t have raised his head from her shoulder if he’d tried.  “I didn’t think of anything but you. I didn’t feel anything but you. I wasn’t anywhere but with _you._ ”

 

“Oh,” Killeen said a little shakily. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “It’s good. Killeen Hanmount, will you marry me?”


	101. On One Knee - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen has firm ideas about things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

* * *

 

_29th Harvestmere_

 

* * *

 

“Of course I will,” Killeen said matter-of-factly. “Although I don’t know how we’re going to turn this into a story for the grandchildren.”

 

Cullen discovered he could, after all, raise his head. He stared at her. “What?”

 

Killeen grinned down at him. “When did you decide to marry grandma, grandfather? Well, grandson, she sucked my cock, and so …”

 

“ _Killeen_ ,” Cullen said. “I did not decide to ask you just now. I’ve been trying to find the words, the right moment, for months now. I have a troth ring, and everything.”

 

Killeen leaned away from him a little with a raised eyebrow, looking him up and down. “I shudder to think where you’re keeping it.”

 

It took him a moment to follow her meaning and then he felt his face scald. “ _Killeen_ ,” he protested, laughing. “In my _pocket_.” He stretched, and managed to get the fingers of one hand on the edge of his breeches, pulling them toward him. The ring was still safely in his pocket, and he fished it out, holding it between finger and thumb so she could see it. “See? It’s charmed. Your blows will strike deeper while you wear it.”

 

Killeen touched the ring with one finger, frowning. “Trust you to find a troth ring spelled to protect me.”

 

“I’ve learned that trying to protect you is a fool’s errand, and entirely unnecessary,” Cullen said. “This will help you protect yourself. And Fel. And _me_ , when necessary.”

 

Killeen looked mollified. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me, then?”

 

Cullen blinked. “I just did. You said yes. Didn’t you?”

 

She poked him in the shoulder with one finger. “Ask me _properly._ ”

“How, uh — what do you mean, properly?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Killeen said reasonably. “No-one’s ever asked me to marry them before. And since I fully intend to stay married to you for the rest of our lives, no-one’s ever going to again. If this is my one and only proposal, I’d like it to be done right.”

“I, um, I think to do it properly we need a meadow full of wildflowers. Or an expensive restaurant. According to what I’ve read, anyway.”

 

“Wildflowers are a bit scarce at this time of year, but the Divine Victoria probably has a greenhouse,” Killeen said thoughtfully.

 

“Really?” Cullen said plaintively. “You really want to put our clothes back on and go and find the hypothetical greenhouse?”

 

“Yes,” Killeen said implacably, stood up and went to find her clothes.

Sighing, Cullen did the same.

 

The Divine Victoria _did_ have a greenhouse, set in the courtyard at the rear of the house. They dashed shivering through the snow to it, and found themselves suddenly in midsummer. _Heat spells, no doubt_ , Cullen thought, looking around at the luxuriant greenery, the riot of flowers tumbling across every wall and surface. 

 

“Will this do?” he asked.

 

Killeen turned around slowly, surveying the rose bushes crowded with buds in red and yellow and cream, the honeysuckle twining its way up the wall, the pots crowded with lilies. “Yes,” she said. “Should I be holding a bunch of flowers, do you think?”

 

“Um. If you want?”

 

Killeen put her hands on her hips. “Well, how did _you_ imagine it?”

 

“I thought to find a moment in private, in our room perhaps. So flowers … I didn’t think of flowers.”

 

“Should we go upstairs, then?”

 

“No!” Cullen took her hand. “This is fine. Better. This is better. Just let me ask you, and get it over with.” Her eyes narrowed. “No! Not _get it over with_. That was, um. Wrong?”

 

“Maybe _you_ should be holding flowers,” Killeen mused.

 

“If you like,” Cullen agreed desperately.

 

And then he caught the slightest upwards twitch at the corner of her mouth, the faintest glint in her eye.

 

He tugged her closer to him. “Killeen …” he said softly. “I think you’re teasing me.”

 

The corner of her mouth curled up a little more. “Perhaps,” she conceded.

 

“That’s not a very nice thing to do to someone trying to ask the love of his life to marry him.”

 

She slid her arms around his neck. “Are you still nervous?”

 

“No,” Cullen said, realising it was true.

 

“Then ask me,” she whispered.

 

He gently removed her hands from his neck and, holding them in his, sank to one knee.  “Killeen Hanmount, I love you more than there are words to say. You are the meaning of all my days and nights. I think about you every moment we are apart and can’t take my eyes off you when we’re together.  I want to spend the rest of my life hearing your jokes, even the ones about nugs, being shocked by your oaths, and making you tea. The Maker granted me a blessing greater than I could ever deserve the day I met you. I want to grow old with you, Killeen Hanmount, and I promise I will always keep you warm. Will you marry me?”

 

She smiled down at him, grey gaze steady on his face. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford, I began to fall in love with you the moment a Templar Knight-Captain gave a city guard water from his own canteen on a hot day, and no matter how long or how far I fall, there’s no end to how deeply I love you. I will carry you through any storm, row you across any ocean, and  put up with your cooking if absolutely necessary. I want to fall asleep beside you every night and wake up with you every morning, even if you never get around to mending that Blighted roof. There is nothing in all Thedas I’d rather do than marry you.”

 

Cullen let go of her right hand and felt in his pocket for the ring, knowing a moment’s panic that it had fallen out on their way to the greenhouse before his fingers found it. Carefully, he slipped it on Killeen’s finger. It fit, of course, as all charmed rings were spelled to do. Heart full to bursting, he pressed his lips to it.

 

And then Killeen was on her knees beside him, her hands tangled in his hair, her lips against his. “I love you, I love you, oh, I love you, my darling, my beautiful, glorious man, I love you, I love you …”

 

He crushed her to him, feeling the long, strong muscles of her back and shoulders beneath his hands, her small, high breasts pressed against his chest, her mouth sweet and firm and flexible beneath his own, all of it so familiar and all of it an unexpected miracle, the way it was every time he held her. He sank back, drawing her into his lap, dropping his hands to frame the curve of her hips, wider these days than when he’d first learned her body in the aftermath of her long illness. All of her was solider, now, slightly softer, no longer stripped lean the way they all had been by the long struggle against Corypheus. Even her breasts, when he yanked impatiently at her shirt, were fuller, nipples dark as currants and a fine tracery of blue veins below her honey-coloured skin.

 

He took one in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue in the way he had learnt always made her moan and arch. This time was no different, and she clenched her fingers in his hair, holding his head there, starting to rock against him. “Oh, Cullen, yes, Maker, yes, yes.”

 

He teased her with lips and fingers until she shifted to straddle him, moving faster and more urgently, the friction and the sound of her voice panting _please Cullen, please, yes_ and the sight of her face, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy-lidded, almost enough to bring him to the brink then and there.

 

“Wait,” he gasped. “Please — I can’t —”

 

She stilled, hands clutching his shoulders, forehead pressed against his. “Are you all right?”

 

“I need a minute,” he whispered. “Or this will be over sooner than you’d like.”

 

Her lips curved in a smile. “Cullen,” she said softly. “We have the whole rest of our lives to take our time. I want you inside me, where you belong. _Right now._ ”

 

He needed no further invitation. Flipping her onto her back, he yanked her belt free and as she raised her hips, pulled her breeches down and then freed himself from his own. She was more than ready, guiding him to her as he sank between her legs and arching to take him completely with a moan he felt in his balls.

 

“You are so beautiful,” he said. She fluttered and trembled around him and he groaned, hips jerking involuntarily. “So beautiful. So … oh, Maker, Killeen.”

 

He meant to go slowly, but the sweet slick warmth of her, her cries and gasps with every thrust, her nails digging into his back and the sight of the flush rising across her breasts and creeping across her collarbone to her neck — a surge of pure lust burnt through every good intention and he buried himself in her again and again, mind empty of everything but _now, more, now, please, yes_ _…_

 

And then she tensed and tightened around him and climaxed with a shout, back arching and hips thrusting convulsively against him and he thrust once more as she pulsed and contracted around him and felt the golden heat building within him drawn up and out and into her in a glorious, blinding release.

 

He came back to himself he didn’t know how long later, face pressed against Killeen’s neck and her arms wrapped around him, both of them lying in a litter of fallen petals. He moved a little, meaning to shift his weight from her, and her arms tightened.

 

“That’s what I call _properly_ ,” she said a little breathlessly, and he chuckled. “Oh, I needed that. I needed _you_.”

 

“You have me,” he said. “Always. Although you might have to protect me from Vivienne when she finds out what we’ve done to her greenhouse.”

 

“I’m hoping we’ll be safely behind the walls of Skyhold by the time that happens,” Killeen said, and he laughed again.

 

“I can’t wait. I swear, Killeen, I can’t think of anything better in all Thedas than to wake up next to you in our own bed, and eat breakfast with you, and spend the day solving whatever tangle the requisitions have gotten themselves into with you.”

 

The hand stroking his back stopped for a second, and then resumed. “Yes,” Killeen said.

 

Cullen raised his head. “Killeen?”

 

“I … do you remember what I said in Kirkwall? About being a Guard, being a soldier?”

 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “You need to stop, don’t you? I’ve known it for a while.”

 

“I need to stop being a soldier. I need to go back to being a Guard.”

 

“You want to move back to Kirkwall?"  _Who could take over the Inquisition's forces ..._  he ignored the pang it gave him to contemplate the carefully honed war machine he had so painstakingly put together left to be ruined in another's hands.

 

"No," Killeen said. "Kirkwall's a shithole. But — I was riding out of the gates at Skyhold, when I left, and I realised that with all those tents and caravans and travellers — there's a city outside Skyhold's gates, a city of canvas rather than stone, but a city nonetheless. And our forces have enough to do protecting them, but at the same time the military is the only authority, they have to keep order as well — break up fights, arrest thieves, the rest of it. And that's not a soldier's job and not what they're trained for, either. Not what  _we_  trained them for."

 

“The Skyhold Guard,” Cullen said slowly. 

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Guard-Captain Killeen Hanmount has a nice ring to it,” Cullen said. 

 

“It would still be under the general military command,” Killeen said quickly, and Cullen realised she was protecting his ego, and laughed.

 

“No,” he said. “The Guard should answer directly to the Inquisitor. Guard- _Commander_ Killeen Hanmount.”

 

“I'd miss working for you,” Killeen said softly.

 

“Even if it was only to begin working side by side with me?”

 

“It won’t be the same,” she said.

 

“No,” Cullen said. He cupped her cheek and kissed her. “Just like the Inquisition wasn’t the same as those last few years in Kirkwall. Just like the months since the Inquisitor won haven’t been the same as the months before. _Not the same_ can be _better_ , Killeen. Unless you want to go back to thinking I’m in love with the Inquisitor?”

 

She snorted, and thumped his shoulder, not gently. “So you don’t think it’s a terrible idea?”

 

“I think it’s the best idea you’ve had since you insisted I propose to you _properly_ ,” Cullen said.

 

“I’m not going to be the sort of Guard-Captain who sits safely in an office,” she warned. “Anymore than Aveline is.”

 

“I know,” Cullen said. “And I’ll worry, and fret, and plague the life out of you asking you to be _strategic_. But you won’t be under my command, and I’ll never have to find out if I could ever bring myself to order you into danger. I’ll just be an ordinary doting husband, keeping your dinner warm and hoping you’ve had the good sense not to turn your back on any Antivans.”

 

“And I’ll be an ordinary doting wife, clucking over the dents in your armour and shaking my head every time you put your back out in the training ring.”

 

Cullen kissed her. “It sounds perfect,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”

 

“It does rather,” Killeen said. “It does.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after … oh, wait, ten more chapters to go!
> 
> I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has stuck with this fic as it's grown to a monstrous 200,000 words. Thanks to you all, I am only a few hundred hits away from seeing one of my fics feature on the first page, sorted by hits, of the Cullen Rutherford stories - the first time ever I've had a fic be so popular, and one without a popular pairing, too! If you have any friends you think might enjoy it, do drag them in - the chairs are comfy, the coffee's fresh, and there are fireworks, of various kinds, ahead.


	102. On The Road - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Satanalia ...

_30th Harvestmere - 1st Firstfall_

* * *

 

Cole sat by the fire, one leg tucked beneath him, watching Killeen as she shoved items in her pack.

 

“Absence pulls at her, a hook in the heart,” he said quietly. “He’s older and wiser than most, but she knows that wisdom is still vulnerable to a knife in the dark. She wants him where she can put her hands on him, know him safe. She wants them _all_ safe.”

 

“Cullen’s not that wise,” Killeen said absently. She grinned to herself, and added, “Or all that old.”

 

“Petals falling in a shower of springtime surrounded by snow. Holding her closer than he even knew he hoped, lost in her and found by her both at once —”

 

“ _Cole_ ,” Killeen said firmly. “ _Privacy._ ”

 

“There’s no-one here,” he said. “And it made you happy. It made him happy too. When the walls came down, the army had already left. All he’d been hiding from was his own shadow. I have to go, she needs me to. It won’t help, but hoping will.”

 

Killeen latched on to the one bit of that she thought she clearly understood. “You’re leaving?” When he nodded, “What about Fel?”

 

“She’s safe, now,” Cole said. “There’s a guard at the gate, and a guide beyond it. Even if she listens to the lies, nothing can follow her home.”

 

“Well, maybe, if you say so.” Killeen raked her fingers through her hair. “But she won’t understand.”

 

“She does. I told her.” He rose to his feet.  “Don’t be frightened for her. You taught her all right things.”

 

“ _Me_?” Killeen said incredulously. “Maker’s balls, _I_ _’m_ not a mage —”

 

But Cole was gone.

 

She went to the door to the adjoining room and looked in. “Fel. Cole …”

 

The girl looked up from where she sat by the fireplace with Ser Calenhad on her lap. “The Inquisitor needs him to go look for someone,” she said. “I know. He’ll come back.”

 

“Oh. Well, I hope you’re packed,” Killeen said. “We’re leaving at the next bell and I’m not galloping back to retrieve anything you’ve forgotten.”

 

 “All I have is Ser Calenhad,” Fel pointed out. “And my clothes. And I’m _wearing_ those.”

 

“Oh, really,” Killeen said. She gave Fel her best _profoundly unimpressed_ face. “Where’s your water canteen? And your flint and steel?”

 

“I don’t have any,” Fel said.

 

“Then you had better run down to the kitchen and ask for some, hadn’t you? What happens if we get shipwrecked again? Go on, double-time!”

 

“Yes, Kill,” Fel said, and went at a run.

 

“Are you _planning_ for that child to have even _more_ adventures on your way back to Skyhold?” Alistair said from the doorway.

 

“Not _planning_ , no,” Killeen said, noting the _your_ , and noting too, as she turned, that Alistair was not dressed for travel. “But it’s Fel. _Planning_ , as far as she’s concerned, is about as productive as pissing into the wind.”

 

“Spirit healers are like that, a bit,” Alistair said. “At least, all the ones I’ve ever known have been. I don’t know if it’s _because_ they’re spirit healers or it’s _why_ they’re spirit healers, but they tend to be very _ooh, danger, poke it with a stick!_ _”_

 

“That’s Fel, all right,” Killeen agreed. “And why aren’t you ready to get on the road? We’re about to leave.”

 

“ _You_ _’re_ about to leave,” Alistair said. “ _I_ _’m_ about to say goodbye, good luck, don’t punch any dragons, and so on.”

 

“If you’re worried you’re not welcome —” Killeen said, but Alistair grinned, and shook his head.

 

“Oh, lovely blandishing invitations have been issued,” he said. “Even by her Glorious Worshipful Inquisitorialness Herself. But you’re all a bit bright and shiny for the likes of me. The thought of a whole castle full of bright, shiny people all being terribly, terribly kind to the disgrace of Ferelden brings me out in hives.”

 

“ _I_ _’m_ not bright and shiny,” Killeen said.

 

“You are so bloody shiny it hurts my eyes,” Alistair said. “If Solona had had _you_ by her side she’d be alive today, if only because you’d have knocked her head against the wall until she started making better decisions. Andraste’s tears, woman! Any normal human would have lain down in that snow and died, but not you, no. I’ve met golems less resolute than you.” He paused. “Well, _a_ golem, and admittedly, she was a little more preoccupied with colour-coordinating her crystals than most. But still!”

 

“I don’t remember _you_ lying down and dying, either,” Killeen said. “I seem to remember you carrying a little girl — and her kitten — through a blizzard and then offering to trade your sword for shelter for them. The sword with which, I also seem to remember, you killed a fucking dragon with. Saving her life, and mine, and Cullen’s.”

 

“Oh, well, it’s easy when someone else picks the fight,” Alistair said dismissively. “Or gives the orders.”

 

“Don’t be a bigger fool than you were born!” Killeen snapped. “I served as Cullen’s second through the whole of the blighted Inquisition, I know _exactly_ how much easier it _isn_ _’t_ when someone else gives the orders. I know what happened to you, Alistair, Cullen told me. You made one mistake — one terrible, horrendous mistake — but _one_ mistake, Alistair. _I_ came within a hair’s breath of walking out on Cullen when he needed me most, and Cullen, Maker’s balls, ask Cullen sometime what he’s done he regrets. Bright and shiny, Andraste’s puckered arse!” She seized his arm and shoved him into the corridor. “I’ve just last night been commissioned as the Commander of the new Skyhold Guard, with not a single man or woman under my command, Cullen’s got a nephew who needs a _Ser_ to be squire to, and the Inquisitor is no soft-hearted fool to ask you to Skyhold if she doesn’t see some way in which the only damn force holding the balance between Ferelden and Orlais _needs you_! So stop standing around whining about _bright and shiny_ and go and fucking pack!”

 

Alistair stared at her, and then raised his hand to rub his temple. “Ouch,” he said with the trace of a smile. “You didn’t even need a wall.”

 

Killeen let him go. “If you’re late and I have to come find you, _ouch_ will be the least of it.”

 

He wasn’t late. In fact, it was Josephine Montilyet who kept them waiting in the street, breath steaming the pre-dawn chill, and then delayed them further while her over-stuffed saddlebags were distributed among other, less burdened, riders.

 

“Satanalia gifts,” the ambassador confided as her horse came level with Firefly on their way out of Val Royeaux.

 

 _Well, shit_. Killeen realised she had not even thought to enquire about the date. In the Kirkwall guard, Satanalia had been a day to draw extra duty, a long tedious slog through fist-fights and vomit. She’d had no-one to give her gifts, no-one to buy them for. _Last_ Satanalia she barely remembered, the day she’d heard the scuttlebutt that Cullen had been offered a job by the Lady Cassandra and was going to take it, was going to leave Kirkwall.

 

She’d gotten a gift that day, or, to be accurate, in the small hours of the following morning, although she hadn’t known it for one at the time: Cullen, hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her bodily out of the _Hanged Man_ , setting her down and saying _Come with me. I have no idea what the Inquisition_ _’s fighting forces will be like. I need at least one shield I can trust — and probably help getting the rest into shape._

_Come with me._

But, Maker, it was about to be Satanalia, and Cullen had just given her a ring that must have cost a year’s pay at the least, and there was Fel to think about, and —

 

She found herself laughing aloud.

 

Cullen nudged Steelheart a little closer to Firefly and eyed her quizzically. “Think of a new nug joke?”

 

Killeen shook her head. She couldn’t say _Ten days ago I thought we were all going to die, and now my biggest worry is Satanalia presents_ — because, in fact, her biggest worry _was_ Satanalia presents, and how she was going to prevent Cullen and Fel from realising she had utterly forgotten to get any, and telling Cullen that really would defeat the point —

 

She leaned across, seized his cloak, and pulled him closer until she could kiss him. “I love you.”

 

“If we’re going to have to put up with this until you two are married,” Varric called, “I vote we find a Chantry as soon as possible.”

 

Killeen let Cullen go, and made a rude gesture as Cullen blushed. “Careful, dwarf,” she said. “I still haven’t chosen a flowerboy.”

 

“I’d be delighted,” Varric said. “I like to think I’m an ornament to any social occasion.”

 

“Maker’s _breath_ ,” Cullen muttered.

 

Killeen couldn’t resist kissing him again.

 

By evening, she’d worked out what to do about Fel’s present, and she’d had an urgent and persuasive word with Alistair — but Cullen still puzzled her, not least because she’d had no idea what to give him even if she’d had all the shops of Denerim at her disposal. If she’d had any idea where, in the snow-blind nightmare of their trek from the coast, she’d abandoned his armour, she might have tried to retrieve it for him, but searching half of Orlais was hardly practical. _Besides, that breastplate might look imposing, but Harritt made it for him back in Haven when he had more limited materials — and no Dagna.  It_ _’s about time he had something better._

 

With no ideas of her own, Killeen did what any sensible woman would do in such circumstances. As the company made camp, she slipped away from Cullen and Fel and threw herself on the mercy of Josephine Montilyet.

 

“I had no idea of the date,” she explained. “I mean … things have been a little … fraught.”

 

“Of course,” Josephine said, and produced a small jar. “Here. This will serve, I think.”

 

 When she woke next morning, Satanalia was in full swing. Stanton was being carried around the camp on Blackwall’s shoulders, wearing the Inquisitor’s helm.  Lady Trevelyan and Varric were cheerfully jogging after them, wearing packhorse’s harnesses. And, given the soldiers cheerfully raising tankards, someone had breached a cask.

 

 _A_ cask, but not more than one. General merriment did not shade over into misbehaviour, and they were all on the road not much later than a normal day would have seen, although Stanton’s place at the head of the column and the Inquisitor’s pretence at being in charge of the baggage kept spirits higher than they would usually be during travel in the depth of winter.

 

They made good time, even given that they made camp early to afford more time for Satanalia celebrations. Further casks were breached, although the soldiers on guard duty did not partake, and finer cuts than usual were thrown into the pots for the evening meal.

 

And then it was time for the exchange of gifts.

 

Killeen was touched almost to tears to unfold Cullen’s gift and see a pair of the finest woollen socks she’d ever seen. After the sword Master Harritt had made, she couldn’t think of anything he could have chosen which would have said more clearly that he knew exactly who she was. Fel gave her a fishing line and hooks, which she carefully and ostentatiously stowed in her belt pouch, and Stanton had chosen the useful, if unspecific, gift of scented goose-grease for saddle or sword-belt.

 

After they’d given each other their presents, Killeen cleared her throat. “Stanton, what I have for you isn’t something you can put in your pack and carry home.”  She turned, and beckoned to Alistair.

 

He came to their camp fire, and Killeen was relieved to see that he appeared to be sober. “Well,” he said. “You see. It does seem like I am decidingly lacking a squire. And Guard-Commander Killeen tells me I’m not going to be able to skulk away and pretend I’m not really _Ser_ Alistair. _So_. Since I am in need of a squire, it seems to me I couldn’t do better than a young man with the courage to stand like an oak tree in a pasture in the midst of a thunderstorm. Stanton. If you so choose, then by the Maker I swear, that should you be true and faithful, and love as I love, and shun all I shun, I shall train you truly in the ways of combat, without stint, I shall guard you and guide you as if you were my own kin. If my enemies are yours, then your enemies shall be mine, and if any should seek to you do you harm, I will take such offence as a dagger aimed at my own heart.  So do I, Alistair —” He hesitated. “So do I, Alistair Theirin, swear.”

 

Stanton gaped at him for a moment, until Killeen thumped his shoulder. Then he scrambled forward and sank to his knees. “By the Maker, I swear, I shall be true and faithful, I shall love as you love, and shun all you shun, as the laws of nature and of the Maker shall allow.  Your enemies shall be mine, and I will be obedient to your will, Ser Alistair.”

 

Alistair looked down at the bowed blond head, and whispered, “He’s very … _earnest._ _”_

 

Killeen punched him in the calf, and Alistair winced. “I do hereby take you as my squire,” he said hastily.  “Although you don’t have to take up your duties until we reach Skyhold. Your uncle may well need you before then.”

 

Stanton sat back on his heels and nodded.

 

“Now, Fel,” Killeen said. “I gave you this once before, but now I think it’s time for you to have it permanently.” She drew her dagger from her boot and offered it to Fel, hilt first, over her forearm. “You’re not to use it until Cullen or I say you’re ready, and you have to care for it — I’ll teach you that. But it’s yours now.”

 

Fel took the dagger carefully, eyes wide, and turned it so the blade caught the firelight. “Thank you!” she said fervently.

 

“Ooh, danger!” Alistair said quietly. “Let’s stick it with a knife!”

 

Killeen unhooked the sheathe from her boot and showed Fel how to put the blade away without cutting herself, then turned to Cullen and produced the small jar Josephine had given her.

 

He unscrewed the top and sniffed it cautiously. “It’s …”

 

“For your hair,” Killeen said, leaning over to run her fingers through the riot of curls. “Although I like it the way it is now. I never understood why you started to use the pomade.”

 

Cullen smiled. “Really? Eight years of Varric calling me _Curly_ didn’t seem sufficient incentive?”

 

Killeen snorted. “Varric,” she said. “If you really care more about his opinion than mine …”

 

Cullen circled her waist with one arm and drew her to lean against him. “ _You_ don’t write books read by half of Thedas. You do know he’s working on one about Colin Witherford and Trillian Monmoth.”

 

Killeen rested her head against his shoulder. “I’ve suddenly acquired the ability to see the future,” she said. “I see … a small, contained fire in Varric’s quarters.” 

 

Cullen laughed softly, fingers tracing a circle on the nape of her neck. “Is that the only sort of heat you see in your future?”

 

Killeen grinned, and then gave an ostentatious yawn. “Well, I’m beat,” she announced loudly. “Time to turn in.”

 

 

  



	103. On The Road - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a long-posed question is answered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now there’s more information about Cullen’s siblings, I’ve changed the details going forward, including the names, so if you’re reading this as I publish it, they’ll be different from earlier chapters.

_2nd Firstfall — 12th Haring_

* * *

 

The weather held cold and clear, and they made good time down the coast and across toward the Frostbacks, giving both Lydes and Halamshiral a wide berth.

A day past Halamshiral, in the foothills, Cullen was riding close beside Killeen, the children ahead of them, when one of Leliana’s ravens swooped into camp. The Inquisitor held up her fist like a falconer and the bird perched on it, allowed her to remove the scroll bound to its leg, and then flapped off to perch in a tree.

 

Lady Trevelyan unrolled the parchment, read its contents, and said, “Maker’s fucking foreskin!”

 

Cullen glanced at Killeen. She nodded, and nudged Firefly closer to Stanton and Fel. He touched his heels to Steelheart’s sides and sent the horse through the company to the Inquisitor’s side. “What is it?”

 

“That blighted bitch Anora!” the Inquisitor said. Her horse, picking up her agitation, snorted and stamped. “How she fucking dared, I _do not know!_ _”_ Cullen turned in the saddle to signal that the company should set themselves in battle order, but Lady Trevelyan reached out and stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, Cullen, it’s over now, there’s no need.”

 

“What happened?” he asked.

 

“Your sister and Killeen’s nephew are safe,” the Inquisitor said. “As is Krem.”

 

It had not, until that moment, occurred to Cullen that they might _not_ be. His hands tightened on the rains and Steelheart flicked an ear, a shiver of anticipation running along one flank as the charger picked up on the sudden surge of adrenaline running through his rider. “ _What happened?_ ”

 

“Ferelden’s frozen queen thought to use them to force me to yield Alistair to her. Sera and the Chargers retrieved them. They’re safely on their way to Skyhold. As are the rest of your family, Cullen, Leliana’s taken care of it.”

 

“Where are they?” he demanded.  _Maker_ _’s breath!_ Branson, Rosalie, their spouses and children — and Mia’s — already driven from their homes, their livelihoods,  by the Blight, and now again, on the road in the dead of winter … “Where?”

 

“Safe in the Inquisition’s care, Cullen,” Lady Trevelyan said. “They’re _safe_.”

 

Cullen took a breath, another, nodded.

 

“Mia is with the Chargers. They’ve made good time and are close to Redcliffe. They’ll probably be at Skyhold before us. The rest of your family is being escorted by Scout Harding and her people. They’re making slower progress, as you’d expect.” Lady Trevelyan grimaced. “I’d take the whole lot of us to add to the strength of the escort but I don’t think the Inquisitor riding in force across Ferelden right now would lower the diplomatic temperature.”

 

“ _Lower_ it,” Cullen said. _Raise it, rather, to a boil that will broil Anora alive._

 

“For now,” the Inquisitor said. “Until I’m good and ready. Cullen, this will _not_ stand.” She studied him. “We’re nearly home. Why don’t you take fifteen swords and give Harding a hand. Not that she’ll need it, but you’ll feel better if you do it yourself.”

 

Some of the tension in his temples eased. “Thank you,” he said.

 

The Inquisitor smiled. “You’re the worst delegator in Thedas,” she said.  “If I don’t send you, you’ll be unbearable. No colours, mind! You’re private citizens travelling for a First Day visit.”

 

Cullen rode back to Killeen, already making a mental list of who he’d take. _Norris and Fraser, and Killeen, of course_ … he paused.  Killeen meant Fel, as well: it would not be fair to the child to separate her from both of them, not after what she’d been through. But that would take her away from the Inquisitor … he could chose Templars among those to accompany them, at least to guard against any accidents …

 

_No_. Fel was a strong and resilient child, but she was just a child. It would be unfair to drag her across half of Thedas in mid-winter. _She should be home, with her own bed to sleep in, with strong stone walls around her._

 

“I will not be long,” he reassured Killeen, explaining. “I’ll meet them on the road, and bring them safe to Skyhold. I’d rather have you with me, but Fel …”

 

She nodded. “I know.” Leaning across from Firefly’s back to kiss him, she whispered, “Ride fast, my love. Come home as soon as you may.”

 

They _did_ ride fast, taking the best horses from the Inquisitor’s party for mounts and remounts, up through the Frostbacks and through the passes, camping late and rising early. Cullen had chosen men and women from among the scouts and outriders, their light arms and armour designed for speed, and his own weight, without his armour, hardly troubled Steelheart, even in the winter weather. 

 

They were on the road between Skyhold and Redcliffe when Cullen saw a party travelling towards them, unmistakable combination of silhouettes, horns and mage’s staff.  He spurred Steelheart ahead of the others.

 

“Hey, Curly!” the Bull shouted as soon as they were in earshot and then Mia kicked her own horse to a canter and met him halfway, both of them sliding down in haste for an embrace.

 

“Thomas is fine,” she said quickly, even before her arms were around his neck, and indeed, over her shoulder he could see Killeen’s nephew tucked in the crook of the Bull’s arm. “And I am as well, and Krem.”

 

“I heard what happened,” he said against her hair, put his hands on her shoulders and set her back to study her face. “Mia, forgive me, I would never have left you if I’d thought …”

 

“Oh, I know _that_.” She was studying him in turn. “You found her, didn’t you? You couldn’t look so well if you hadn’t.”

 

“I did, and Fel.” He drew her close again. “They’ll be in Skyhold soon — although you might beat them there. They’re both well. And Stanton — quite safe and well. A hero of the Inquisition — Lady Trevelyan will tell you all about it. We’re to be married. Um. Killeen and I, not Lady Trevelyan and, uh —”

 

“About time!” Mia said tartly. “Oh, Cullen, of course, I never sent the letter. Thomas is mine. Jean signed him over to me and I had it formalised properly and everything, before she sold Alistair out to the Queen’s men and they arrested us.”

 

“Good,” Cullen said. It called for a more fulsome comment, but his sense of relief was so great he couldn’t find one. “ _Good._ He’ll do well with you.”

 

“With _me_?” Mia said. “You’ll be formally adopting him as soon as I can get somewhere with proper paperwork, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you and your soon-to-be wife.”

 

Cullen found himself grinning, as much at the bubble of happiness he felt at the idea of his _soon-to-be wife_ as at the idea of first words, first steps, a small chubby hand holding a practice sword, grey eyes gazing up at him as he told and re-told the stories he remembered from his own childhood …  “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Mia, forgive me, I would escort you to Skyhold myself but I must press on. Branson and Rosalie — all the others …”

 

She nodded. “Go, then. I wanted to wait for them but the Bull said they’d be safer if I wasn’t with them.” She made a face. “Apparently Queen Anora is quite good at holding grudges.”

 

“You’ll be safe from her in Skyhold,” Cullen said. “Mia, this is my fault … your home, everything …”

 

“Bring my husband and my children safely to me, and the rest can go to the Void,” Mia said.

 

“I swear it,” Cullen said. He could not bring himself to ride on until he had accepted Thomas from the Bull’s massive arms and seen his reassuringly plump cheeks for himself. _You will be my son_ , he told the squirming boy silently. _I will be your father_.

 

The future unfurled before him like a tapestry being unrolled, larger and richer and wider than he could ever have imagined.

 

Reluctantly, he yielded Thomas to Mia, kissed her cheek, and went.

 

More days hard riding, then. They passed through Redcliffe with only one night spent in the _Gull and Lantern_ and hasty re-provisioning, then headed along the road that ran past the south shore of Lake Calenhad. They were almost to Lothering when a group of wagons and riders came into view.  

 

Cullen saw Branson first, riding as straight-backed as any knight, a small child on the saddle-bow in front of him. The winter sunlight blazed off the blonde hair that all the Rutherford siblings shared. _Extremely visible hair_ , Cullen  remembered Killeen calling it, in the snowy nightmare that had been their retreat from Haven.

 

Scout Harding and her people were nowhere in sight but Cullen had no doubt that, had he been an enemy, there’d be an arrow in his throat right about now.

 

Branson reined back as he approached, watching him without expression.

 

“Branson,” Cullen said, bringing Steelheart to a halt. “Do you not know me, brother?”

 

“Of course I bloody do,” Branson said grimly. “You took your damn time, then.”

 

_And what did I expect, after so many years, in such circumstances?_ “I came as soon as I — forgive me, this is my fault. I never thought …”

 

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Branson said, and grinned. “Still easier to get a rise out of you than a hungry perch, and still convinced you’re responsible for the world’s ills.” He leaned over, offering his hand, and Cullen clasped it gladly. “It’s good to see you, man. I’d wish for better circumstances, but even the great and glorious Cullen Rutherford can’t be held at fault for the doings of the Queen.” He let go of Cullen’s hand, and touched the shoulder of the child who rode with him. “Mira, say hello to your uncle Cullen.”

 

“ ’lo,” said Mira, and hid her face in her father’s chest.

 

A voice from the wagons made them both turn. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford, get down off that horse and come here!”

 

Rosalie — for it could only _be_ Rosalie — was climbing down from one of the wagons. Cullen dismounted and went to meet her as she made her way carefully over the snow. _She_ _’s hurt_ , Cullen realised with a pang, seeing how cautiously she moved, her weight canted slightly backwards.

 

He reached her, and she flung her arms around his neck. “Too long. Too long, you wicked, wicked boy!”

 

“I know,” he said, holding her gently. “Forgive me. But you should be resting. Let me help you.”

 

“I’ve been resting all day,” Rosalie said, not releasing him.

 

Cullen lowered his voice. “If you don’t want the others to know, I understand. But I can tell you’re hurt — the way you move. Or ill?”

 

Rosalie laughed. “Neither.” She pulled a little away from him and tossed her cloak back over one shoulder. She had the full figure of a woman little used to strenuous work, bodice tight across the swell of her belly, and to his relief Cullen saw no sign of bandages. “Cullen,” she said, smiling, and seized his hand, carrying it to her stomach.

 

“What …?”

 

“Wait,” she said. “It’s not much, yet, but you’ll know …”

 

And he felt it, fluttering beneath his palm: the slightest movement. Movement that was not Rosalie’s. He gaped at her. “You’re …”

 

“Going to make you an uncle one more time over, in a bit more than three months.”

 

The Chantry always spoke of conception as _a miracle of the Maker_ _’s grace_ , and Cullen had never questioned it, although some of the things that had happened in the Gallows had made him aware that a quickening life was not always a blessing for the woman who carried it.

 

He had never questioned it, but he realised now he had never understood it, either, until that moment, until he felt that faint quiver. All the mages in Thedas, uniting their powers, could not have created what he felt beneath his hand: a life, a new life that had never been before, growing and strengthening and preparing to enter into the world and be something and someone entirely and unpredictably new.

 

“Maker’s breath, Rosalie, you shouldn’t be standing around in this cold!” He seized her arm and began to help her back to the wagon, taking as much of her weight as he could.

 

She allowed it, giggling. “With my first I was helping with the harvest when I was further along than this, Cullen.”

 

“Sweet maker!” He lifted her into the wagon. “There’ll be no need for you to do any of _that_ in Skyhold. Here, take my cloak —” He swung it off and handed it up to her.

 

As she accepted it, Cullen had the distinct feeling she was _humouring_ him.

 

He had that feeling often over the next days and weeks: every time he insisted on fetching her food for her so she didn’t have to risk a fall on the slippery ground; every time he rode alongside her wagon to check she was all right, that the road was not jolting her too much, that she was not too cold, or too tired; every time he hurried to lift her down from the wagon before she could clamber over the tailgate herself.

 

Sometimes, as he spanned her waist and lifted her down or up, he felt it again, that tickle of movement beneath his hand, a life, a _child_.

 

Each time, it took his breath away, and each time, Cullen was more resolved than ever that however many times Rosalie rolled her eyes, however casually her own husband seemed to treat her condition, he would not allow her the least discomfort or exertion. 

 

It was not just the separation from Killeen that made him eye the silhouette of Skyhold on the horizon with a sigh of relief. _Healers_ _… midwives … she and the child will be safe, will be well cared for, can rest …_

 

Night was gathering before they reached the city of tents — _and not only tents, anymore_ , Cullen thought, seeing some rough wooden structures erected against the cold — outside Skyhold’s gates. They made it across the bridge just before the sun dipped behind the mountains, and so through the main gates before they were closed for the night.

 

And they were, of course, expected. _Leliana_ _’s no doubt marked every mile of our progress for the last week_. Stable-hands ran to tend the horses, the Inquisitor herself was there to greet the Rutherfords and kin and promise them welcome and shelter, and Mia tried to gather all her children and her husband and her siblings into one embrace and almost managed it. The look she gave Lady Trevelyan over her husband’s shoulder suggested to Cullen than his sister had not quite forgiven the Inquisitor for Stanton’s central role at the Val Royeaux ball.

 

“Ser Bear!”

 

Cullen swung down from Steelheart as Fel pelted towards him and knelt, heedless of the freezing mud, to catch her up in his arms. She was heavier than she’d been six weeks ago, still wiry but less sharp of elbow and shoulder-blade, and he knew he’d made the right decision not to take her with him. “Hello, cubling,” he said, lifting her as he got back to his feet. “Where’s Killeen? And Stanton?”

 

“Stanton’s standing watch. Ser Alistair said a duty watch couldn’t be skipped for personal considerations, and he could see his family after his watch was done.”

 

_Good man_ , _Alistair,_ Cullen thought. _Let the lad learn how it_ _’s going to be as soon as possible: not honour and glory but long hours on your feet in the cold when you’d rather be somewhere else._

 

“And Kill’s in her quarters, with Tom,” Fel said. She grinned smugly. “It’s not easy to keep a secret from the Guard-Commander but Lady Trevelyan and Mia and me managed. Kill doesn’t know you’re here!”

 

“Then we’d better go and tell her, hadn’t we?” Cullen said.

 

As he turned toward the stairs, Mia called out, “Cullen! Lend me Felandaris to help me get this _horde_ of children fed and settled.”  She winked.

 

“Do you mind, Fel?” Cullen asked.

 

“No,” she said stoutly, and slid down from his arms. “Besides, you probably want to have sex with Kill.”

 

Cullen managed, just, not to swallow his tongue as his face blazed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um,” he said, and then decided discretion was the better part of valour and fled for the stairs to the upper courtyard.

 

He had imagined their reunion in his familiar loft, with the snow drifting gently through the bare branches of the tree to fall hissing into the fire, but of course, if Killeen was caring for Thomas, a room that could only be reached by a ladder was less than suitable.

 

_Perhaps I can persuade Mia, or someone — anyone — to mind him for a little while we go back to my office._ Killeen was no longer under his command: there was no reason not to lock the door behind them and take her on his desk, as he’d been imagining doing a little too frequently for entirely comfortable riding the last few weeks.

 

Although it had been months since she’d spent any appreciable time there, he found Killeen’s quarters without difficulty. There was a crack of light beneath the door, and from within he could hear her characteristic toneless singing.

 

Soundlessly, he opened the door.

 

Killeen sat by the fire, one long leg slung over the arm of her chair, stretched out to allow her to prod the nearby cradle with her toes and keep it gently rocking.

 

Cullen leaned against the door-frame, drinking in the sight of her as if it was the sweetest water in the world and he’d been a year in the Hissing Wastes, the way the firelight limned the dark wing of her hair as it fell over her cheek, the small movements of her broad, clever hands, the shift of the muscles of her shoulders and arms beneath her shirt.

 

The grey ring gleaming on her finger.

 

It would have been a perfect picture of cosy domesticity, except the lullaby she was murdering was _Every Nug Has His Day_ , with all the obscenities and scatological references left in, and the task she was intent on wasn’t knitting or mending.

 

_No, it_ _’s Killeen,_ Cullen thought. _So of course, she_ _’s sharpening her dagger._

 

Not a perfect picture of domesticity, but perfect, nonetheless.

 

“Hello, my love,” he said quietly, and she looked up and smiled, then set her dagger aside and stretched out her hand.

 

He closed the door behind him, closed the distance between them even faster, leaning down to kiss her and hoisting her to her feet as he did so. Her mouth was as warm and sweet as he remembered and when he broke the kiss and buried his face against her neck he breathed in the familiar scent of oiled leather and metal polish and sweat that said _Killeen_. “Oh, my love, my darling,” he whispered.

 

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Welcome home, beautiful man. Welcome home.”

 

He kissed her again, running his hands over her back, sliding them down to cup her rump and pull her close against him, groaning softly as her tongue teased his. “Let’s never leave again,” he said. She was solid and warm against him, the swell of her breasts soft and yielding, the rise of her belly firm against his stomach. “Not for anything. Not for another Magister from the dawn of time. Not for —”

 

And as her stomach pressed against the muscles of his abdomen, he felt a small, an _unmistakable_ , flutter.

 


	104. In Her Quarters - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ...

_12th Haring_

* * *

 

One moment Cullen was kissing her, tracing her lips with his tongue, working his knee between hers and bidding to fair drive her mad with need for him —

 

And the next he was staring at her as if she’d suddenly grown a second head. In fact, he looked so poleaxed that Killeen almost patted her own shoulders to make sure there wasn’t suddenly an extra neck sprouting from one of them.

 

She cupped his cheek. “Cullen?”

 

Slowly, still with that stunned expression, he stepped back from her. His gaze dropped from her face to her stomach.

 

 _All right, so there_ _’s been a lot more sitting behind desks than I expected, getting the Skyhold Guard set up. And —_ as she felt another twinge of gas — _I might have been over-eating, a little._

_I_ _’m hardly fat enough to merit_ that _kind of astonishment, though_.

 

His lips moved soundlessly. Killeen thought they might have framed her name. “Cullen?” She crossed her arms defensively across her belly. “I’ll be back in fighting trim in no time, when I have all the personnel rosters filled and regular patrols start.”

 

He shook his head wordlessly, and took her hands in his, drawing them out to her sides, still gazing at her.

 

“Cullen, say something,” she said, beginning to feel nervous. _Maker, maybe I really_ am _that fat and I didn_ _’t notice. Not all my breeches fasten all the way up anymore, and I’ve had to let out my belt, it’s true …_ “Cullen?”

 

“Hunh,” he managed.

 

Now she was starting to get worried. “You didn’t hit your head any time in the past few weeks, did you?” She stepped close to him, taking his face between her hands and studying his eyes. “Or anything? Illness? Fever?”

 

“No,” he said dazedly, on his third attempt. “No.”

 

“Sit down.” She steered him to the chair, despite his feeble gestures of resistance. When she put her hands on his chest and shoved, he sat down as suddenly as if his knees would no longer hold him. She turned to the door. “I’ll get —”

 

His hand closed on hers, hard, and he tugged her back to him, trapping her between his knees. _“Killeen,”_ he breathed, seized her shirt and pulled it free from her breeches, and pushed it up. Gently, almost reverently, he laid his palm against the swell of her stomach.

 

“I’ve been lazy. And —” another twinge of gas and he caught his breath, eyes widening. “And greedy. But —” _But that_ _’s no reason to stare at my gut as if it’s just manifested Andraste._

 

“ _Killeen_ ,” he said again, and then his arms were around her and she was in his lap. “Oh, Killeen, my darling, my darling dolt, my love …”

 

“Cullen,” she said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, squirming round to so she could see his face, “what by Andraste’s tasselled tits is the _matter_ with you?”

 

“Nothing,” he said, which was a lie, because his eyes were brimming with tears. “Nothing.”

 

“ _Talk_ to me.”

 

“Let me find the words.” He began to laugh. “I’ve imagined this, you know, the different ways it can be said. I never thought — I never thought it would be this way around, though.” He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other resting on her stomach. “Killeen, my love, my soon-to-be-wife, my darling, darling idiot — you won’t be back in fighting trim for a while, yet.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re with child, you thundering fool!”

 

It was her turn to gape at _him_. “What? But I can’t be. I told you, it’s not possible, and I never had time to see the healers to find out if it _could_ be possible.”

 

“It clearly _is_ possible,” he said. Her stomach gave another twitch, and he grinned. “Didn’t you feel that?”

 

“My indigestion?”

 

“ _Our child_.”

 

“But it’s not possible,” she said again numbly. “It’s not …”

 

_The leaden exhaustion in Kirkwall. The terrible, grinding pain after the dragon flung me across the beach_ _… Lady Vivienne’s gentle touch._

 

 _You will_ both _be well._

Not, as she’d thought, herself and Cullen, that _both_. No.

 

_Myself and_ _…_

“Andraste’s arse!” she breathed. “I’m … you’re … we’re …”

 

Cullen gave a whoop of laughter and rose to his feet, hoisting her in his arms. “You are,” he said. “You are, we are, you are!” He spun her around, her feet off the floor, half-dancing across the room, and then set her down. “I said it, and I didn’t even hear myself.”

 

“Said what?” Killeen asked, bewildered.

 

“The Inquisitor poured enough magic into you to cure your corns. Only not your corns, Killeen. Whatever it was that was wrong.”

 

There wasn’t enough air. Killeen couldn’t catch her breath. The walls were sliding slowly around her and she couldn’t catch her breath no matter how she gasped and Cullen’s face was the only steady point she could see but it was a long way away down a dark tunnel and she couldn’t breathe and the room was tilting and she was —

 

“All right, Killeen, all right, all right.” She was in Cullen’s lap again, her face pressed against his shoulder, his hand warm and firm on the nape of her neck, his other arm around her waist. “Shhh, shhh now. Slowly. Breathe in. Breathe out. And in. And out.”

 

She concentrated on doing as he said, not thinking about anything but matching the rise and fall of her chest to his words. The room began to steady and settle. Cullen’s hand moved from her neck to her back, rubbing up and down her spine in long, firm strokes that forced her muscles to relax. As her body eased into stillness, her mind followed, until she was limp and boneless against him, mind utterly blank.

 

“All right?” Cullen said after a few moments.

 

Killeen nodded against his shoulder.

 

He stood, lifting her in his arms as he did so, and carried her to the bed, laying her down gently and then settling beside her, gathering her into his arms and beginning to rub her back again.

 

“Child,” Killeen said dazedly. “Our child.”

 

“It’ll be all right,” Cullen said. “You’ll be all right. You’ll have the best healers and the best midwives in all Thedas.”

 

“I hadn’t even thought that far,” Killeen murmured.

 

He stroked her hair. “What _are_ you thinking?” When she was silent, “Think out loud, Killeen. Please.”

 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, and tried to find a single solid thought in the blankness inside her skull. “I think I’m thinking … _baby._ ” She pressed her palm flat over her stomach. “In here. _Our child_.” She paused. “That’s about as far as I’ve got.”

 

“Good, or bad?” he asked carefully, and she realised what he must think from her reaction.

 

“Oh, good, good, _good_ , Cullen, Maker’s balls!” For some reason she was crying, a slow leak of tears. “Our child, Cullen, our child! How soon, do you think?”

 

“I’m not an expert.” He raised himself on one elbow and rested his hand over hers. “But not for a while, I think. Rosalie — my sister — has several months to wait, still, and she’s much bigger than you. The midwife will know. But I’m sure you have time to get used to the idea.”

 

“Good,” she said. “Because I think I’ll need it. I mean, it’s good. _Our child_. But … _baby. In here_.”

 

He smiled, and leaned down to press a kiss just above her navel. “Baby,” he agreed.  “In here.”

 


	105. In The Cellar - Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair seeks a bit of peace and quiet.

_24th Haring_

 

* * *

 

Alistair ducked through the kitchen, stole a roll from the bowl on the table with his best charming smile at the cook, and was out the other door and into the cellar before the swat with a spoon she aimed his way could connect.

 

The cellar was empty, as it almost always was, and cold, as everywhere in Skyhold had been since he’d arrived. Alistair had almost found himself missing the blistering heat of Kirkwall’s summer.

 

 _Not the flies, though,_ he thought, making his way across the cellar to what he’d come to consider his own private refuge. _Or the mosquitoes. I wonder what the Maker was drinking the day He invented mosquitoes? Probably that foul stuff the Qun favour. Only thing to explain not only the biting but the buzzing. One would be bad enough._

_The day before, actually, now I think about it. Mosquitoes are the kind of thing you think of when you have the kind of hangover that makes you hate the world._

He ignored the door that led to the Inquisition’s collection of rare ales. He _had_ to ignore it, true, and Cullen would no doubt tell him it was a bad idea to even be down here, so close to all those bottles of lovely, lovely oblivion, but he _did_ manage to ignore it, as he’d done every time he’d come down here, and until he could manage to find a way to persuade the lovely but currently foul-tempered Evelyn Trevelyan to keep her liquor elsewhere, he had to cross the cellar and ignore that door to reach his personal haven.

 

A small room, and cold, and liberally festooned with spider-webs, or it had been until he’d spent a day cleaning them up, _and wouldn_ _’t Wynne laugh at that, me doing housework._ It held nothing but a desk, and a chair, and an extraordinary assortment of books. Not the sort of arcane books that made mages wet their pants in excitement, and not the sort of books that scholars poured over eagerly seeking long-forgotten discoveries. Not the sort of books that had been passed around, dog-eared and occasionally slightly stained, between the Templars in training, or the sort of flowery romance he was almost sure he’d seen Lady Cassandra Pentaghast hide behind her back the other day on his approach, either.

 

Which was interesting. _Never would have suspected she_ _’d have an interest in reading anything other than armour schematics … I wonder if she has someone to give her flowers and read her poetry, or if her interest in romance is purely confined to the page?_

 

No, these were the sort of books that end up in a cul-de-sac off a cellar covered in cobwebs because no-one in their right mind would read more than the first page.

 

_And since no-one_ _’s accused me of being in my right mind for at least ten years now …_

 

With a sigh, he settled into the chair, unbuckling his mail coat, and reached for a book at random. No-one would look for him here. Not Guard-Commander Killeen, who seemed to regard _off duty_ as a phrase in a foreign language, one she’d heard about but didn’t have much truck with. Not Commander Cullen, for another round of questions about whether or not Killeen had eaten lunch, and how long she’d been on her feet, and did she look pale to Alistair, _I think she_ _’s a little pale, but it might have been the light …_ as if Killeen was made of spun glass instead of being quite possibly the toughest individual Alistair had personally met, or as if she were ailing from some fatal and interesting disease and not merely in what was euphemistically termed _an interesting condition._   

 

There was currently a lively betting pool — _run by Varric, of course_ — as to exactly how long it would take for Cullen’s anxious hovering to drive Killeen to the point of explosion. Alistair had put his money on _three weeks_ and was confident enough to have already begun  to count his winnings.

 

No, Killeen and Cullen would not look for him here. Nor would Stanton, who was a good lad, and a fast learner, but who had to be the most earnest and devoted squire a man could be cursed with. Nor would Leliana, and not that Alistair wasn’t glad to see her and see her well but there was a weight of sadness between them, the weight of being the only two people left who’d truly known and personally mourned Solona, that grew unbearable after a little while.

 

Bull wouldn’t come down here, although Alistair wouldn’t, under certain circumstances, be surprised if he turned up. The big Qunari seemed to have an unerring ability to knock on his door at the precise moment that Alistair was thinking  _fuck it, let_ _’s have a drink_ and insist it was time for the training ring. _And I have to admit, having the stuffing knocked out of one by an eight-foot-tall horned stone wall does take the mind off other things._

Nor would —

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I’d be disturbing anyone,” a voice said behind him.

 

Alistair had been properly brought up, _despite recent evidence_ , and so he did not sigh, not even inaudibly, as he laid aside _Needlework Patterns of Ostwick._ “Not at all,” he said, and because it was a woman’s voice he rose as he turned, and bowed. The slight elven woman had been pointed out to him at distance. “Grand Enchanter Fiona. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“I was looking for a book,” she said, and, oddly for one of the most powerful mages of her age, she seemed to Alistair to be a little nervous. Certainly, she didn’t seem to be able to meet his gaze, instead stealing sidelong glances at him.

 

 _Oh, bloody botherathioning Blight._ Mages up to no good was usually a good time to bow politely and leave them to it … but this was Skyhold, and he was, for no reason he could understand, Second in Command of the Skyhold Guard, and therefore _anyone_ up to no good where he could see them being up to it was most definitely something he was supposed to do something about. He gave his best charming smile, the one that had one more than one occasion gotten him credit in a tavern where the barmaid really should have known better. “One in particular?”

 

“Perhaps you could make a recommendation,” Fiona said. “Which is your favourite?”

 

Alistair chuckled, and stretched to reach one down from the shelf. “This one,” he said, presenting it to her.

 

Fiona opened it and read the title page, eyebrows climbing. “The Duties of Young Gentlewomen?”

 

“Published in 7:82 Storm,” Alistair said. “It’s _hilarious_. Especially if you imagine that the young gentlewoman in question is the Inquisitor, and picture her face if someone tried to insist she, for example, learn the appropriate technique for pumicing stains out of chamberpots.”

 

The corner of the elf’s mouth twitched. “Yes. I see.”

 

“Or there’s this one.” He picked up another from the desk. “ _The Manners and Habits of Dragons_ , by the most boring man alive. Or dead, now, I suppose, given its age. A real page-turner, if only because the fascination of seeing what new depths of dusty prose the author can plumb to describe something which is not, by any stretch of the imagination, boring. Terrifying, yes. Intermittently swoopy. Sometimes extremely hot. But not boring — until you read this. Grand Enchanter, what’s wrong?”

 

“I — nothing,” she said hastily, set the book down and began to back toward the door.

 

Alistair took her arm and stopped her — politely and carefully, because she was after all capable of turning him to crispy crunchy bits as much as any dragon. “I can tell that’s not true. It’s sort of my job to tell that’s not true, these days, you know. And my job to do something about it, if you let me.”  She looked up at him, and he realised just how tiny she was, and realised, too, her grey-green eyes were brimming with tears. He let go of her arm, and put his arm around her shoulders, steering her to the room’s one chair. “Sit down, and tell Uncle Alistair all about it.”

 

As he’d hoped, she gave a sniffle of a laugh. “You are hardly old enough to be my brother, let alone my uncle!”

 

Alistair crouched down so he wasn’t looming over her as she sat. “Flattery will get you almost anywhere, Grand Enchanter. Now, tell me what the matter is, so I can go and solve it and we can get back to the bit where I explain the delights of _The Needlework Patterns of Ostwick_.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Fiona said. She gave him a small smile. “Not a matter for the Guard, young man.”

 

“Ah, flattery again,” Alistair said wisely, and won another breath of laughter from her. “If it isn’t a matter for the Guard, perhaps it might be a matter for an off-duty Guard with nothing more to occupy him than _Heraldry and Armorial Signs of the South Reaches, 8:30 to 8:32 Blessed_?”

 

“You are kind,” Fiona said. “I … I hoped my son would have been a kind man, as you are.”

 

 _Ah_. Alistair made an indeterminate noise intended to convey sympathy and comfort and patted her hand.

 

“I lost him long ago,” Fiona went on. “But he has been on my mind, lately. I would like to think he would be a young man such as you are, kind, and brave.”

 

“I’m sure he …” _Is? Was? Would have been?_ “A great deal better man than I am, Grand Enchanter. How …?” Then the blindingly obvious made itself known to him, just too late, _as always._ “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You’re a mage.” _He was taken from her, of course._ “You might still be able to find him, you know. I believe they kept records. The Inquisitor would help. She’s good at that, helping, you might have noticed. It goes with the heroing.”

 

“It has been too long,” Fiona said. She smiled sadly. “He is better off not knowing. Having the life he had made.”

 

“Grand Enchanter, I don’t think that’s true,” Alistair said. He gave her an encouraging smile.   “Any man would be delighted to learn he had a lovely lady like yourself as a mother.”

 

“I have heard … that your mother died,” Fiona said. “Do you miss her?”

 

“I … one can’t really miss what you’ve never known,” Alistair said. “But I can’t speak for your son.”

 

“I am an elf and a mage and I broke the Circles,” Fiona said. “And I abandoned him as a child.”

 

“You’re his _mother_ ,” Alistair said. “That does tend to matter just a teeny tiny bit, you know. And _everyone_ knows that mages don’t get to choose, when it comes to their children. Everyone knows what the rules of the Circles were.”

 

“But I was not in a Circle,” Fiona said. “Not then. I was … I chose, you see. To let him go.”

 

“Oh,” Alistair said, letting go of her hand.

 

“I wanted him to have a normal life!” Fiona said, seizing his hand in turn. “If he were to be a mage, like me … at least he’d have some freedom, something to hold on to in the Circle! And never to know what it’s like to be a _knife-ear_ , a half-breed, shunned and despised! Wasn’t that better?”

 

“I don’t know,” Alistair said. “Perhaps. I can see you did what you thought was best.”

 

“But _was_ it best?” Fiona asked. “Oh, his life would have been different, so different. Would it have been worse? I thought it would.”

 

“Only he can answer that,” Alistair said.

 

“But what would _you_ say?”

 

“Well, I, um …” The honest answer would be _how could you_ , but that would be unkind. “I don’t know, Grand Enchanter. But I think you should give him the chance.”

 

“Perhaps,” she said, but her gaze was steady on his face and her tone held no conviction. “Perhaps.”

 


	106. In Their Quarters - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen organizes things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW-ish

 

* * *

 

_25th Haring - 25th Wintermarch_

* * *

 

They had agreed, back in Kirkwall, that Cullen’s loft was hardly suitable for a family. In his absence, Killeen had returned to her old quarters, but one narrow bed with Thomas in his cradle and Fel sleeping on a pallet by the fire was in no way suitable as a long-term arrangement.

 

Killeen organised things with her usual efficiency, finding quarters in the lower courtyard and having their belongings carried down and arranged — their armour stands, chests, the few ornaments either of them owned: the mildly obscene sculpture the Kirkwall Guards had given Killeen as a going-away present , the oddly carved box Cullen had found in the Hightown Market and bought, for no reason he had been able to bring to mind at the time.

 

Tracing the curved lines on the lid as it stood on the mantelpiece of what would now be their bedroom, he realised that it had reminded him of the ripples on the surface of the lake at Honnleath.

 

 _So much I nearly lost_ _…_

 

Killeen’s arms slipped around his waist and she kissed the back of his neck. “Will it do, do you think?”

 

“I’m not sure.” He turned in the circle of her arms to see her frowning. “It depends how sturdy the bed is.”

 

She grinned. “ _Very_ sturdy,” she said. “As is the lock on our bedroom door.”

 

She gave a whoop of laughter as he hoisted her over his shoulder. “Better put it to the test.”

 

In fact, the slow and gentle love-making he held himself to in consideration of her condition didn’t even make the bedframe creak — although Killeen’s responses certainly tested how sound-proof the thick stone walls were.

 

Just before the end of the year, Stanton moved in with them, Alistair having comprehensively rejected the idea of his squire sleeping across his threshold, and it being unsuitable for a squire to be still living with his mother. Cullen, remembering an inn garden on the road to Redcliffe with the herb beds covered ready for the winter frost, had a quiet word with the boy, and Stanton still ate the evening meal with his family on days his duties allowed. Mia said nothing, about either the move or the frequency of her son’s visits, but the next time Cullen saw her she pulled him close for an embrace harder and longer than usual.

 

They celebrated First Day together, a mild, quiet celebration while outside, the castle walls echoed with music and laughter as the Inquisition marked one more milestone that proved they had, after all, survived: this one, the beginning of the first full year after Corypheus, the start of a year with no shadow on it at all.

 

The children were allowed to stay up to see the display the mages had planned for midnight, Thomas wrapped warm and sound asleep in Cullen’s arms and Mia’s youngest fast asleep against her father’s shoulder as they all stood together on the stairs above the stable and watched starbursts of green and gold and blue explode against the night sky. Up in the Great Hall, Cullen knew, the Inquisitor and Lady Montilyet and the rest of the companions would be dancing and drinking far into the night — revelry that he himself would have been expected to attend, as Commander of the Inquisition, had things been different.

 

 _Thank the Maker they are_. He put his arm around Killeen and helped her back up the stairs, insisted she lie down while he settled Thomas and made sure Fel and Stanton were in their beds, and then joined her, hand resting on the ever-more-evident swell of her stomach, tracing the pattern of muscle and sinew.

 

“Happy First Day,” she murmured, lacing her fingers through his, and Cullen had to agree. He couldn’t recall a happier in all his life.

 

The rooms were small, but large enough for their needs, given that the mess took care of their food and the laundry their linen — a room for them, one for Fel and Stanton, one for Thomas and the baby to come, and a common room they could share in the evenings. There was, Cullen had to admit, a comfort to shutting the door behind him when he came off-duty, hearing Fel trying to teach Thomas the names of all the different pieces of a suit of platemail, knowing that Killeen would be coming through the door behind him in just a few minutes. And to lying awake at night, listening to Killeen breathing beside him, the fire crackling on the hearth, knowing that the children were safe asleep down the hall.

 

Cullen lay awake very often, listening to the sounds of his family, occasionally rising to pad barefoot down the hall and look in on Thomas in his crib, on Stanton looking still so much like a child in his sleep when, waking, he was almost a man, on Fel with Ser Calenhad keeping watch over her on the end of her bed. The cat, as big now as most of Skyhold’s other felines although he still had a year or so of growth to go, would lift his broad white head with its massive ruff and blink at Cullen. _She_ _’s well_ , that slow blink said. _I_ _’m watching over her. Go away._

 

Cullen would, would return to bed and try again to sleep.

 

And more often than not, fail.

 

He grew used to a new habit, rising well before dawn after a few hours fitful sleep, leaving Killeen curled in their bed. He would walk the battlements, inspecting the watch, and then repair to his office and begin the day’s work.

 

He was there, pouring himself another cup of tea to stave off an attack of yawning, when a knock on the door announced Knight-Captain Rylen.

 

“A sight for sore eyes,” Cullen said, grinning, and waved to the chair opposite. “Tea?”

 

“Thanks,” Rylen said, sinking into the chair with a sigh. “I thought we’d make Skyhold yesterday, but a horse threw a shoe and we had a cold night’s camp.” He accepted the mug Cullen offered. “I hear I owe you congratulations, twice over. When’s the wedding?”

 

“Not soon enough,” Cullen said. “I’d be happy with the chapel and our friends, but Lady Montilyet and the Inquisitor have joined forces and are insisting on something _appropriate_ for the Commander of the Inquisition’s military.”

 

“Thank the Maker I’ve never risen high enough to come to their attention, then,” Rylen said. “The chapel at Griffon Wing Keep will serve me fine.”

 

“As to that, you’re not going back to—” Cullen paused. “Wait. Do you mean that in the abstract, or …?”

 

“Or not,” Rylen said. He studied his mug intently. “Not without your permission, Commander. Although if you’re taking my command from me, perhaps I’m not in favour enough to have it?”

 

“The opposite, man,” Cullen said. “I need a new Second, Killeen having taken herself off to be the first Guard-Commander of the Skyhold Guard. I can’t think of anyone better for it than you. And of course you have my permission. Who is she?”

 

Rylen took a deep breath. “Her name is Anandra. She’s —”

 

 _Maker_ _’s breath._ “From Redcliffe,” Cullen said. “Another man’s wife. And bearing your child, Rylen, isn’t she?”

 

“Borne it,” Rylen said, and despite his flush of embarrassment he couldn’t hold back a smile. “A son. And she’s tied to no man any longer.”

 

“Rennett died?” Cullen tried to find regret for the man, who’d served well with Vale, but the memory of Fel, bruised and terrified, intervened.

 

“No,” Rylen said. “The marriage is annulled.”

 

“For what cause?” Cullen asked, surprised.

 

“Lack of issue.” Rylen grimaced. “An unpleasant business, swearing yourself publicly to having taken another man’s wife to bed, but I did it.”

 

“Even if this child is yours, Fel …” Cullen paused. “My sister said it. One child and no more, and proof that Anandra was capable.”

 

Rylen nodded. “As bad as it was for me, worse for her, standing there telling how she’d hurried Rennett to the chantry once she knew herself with another man’s child.”

 

“But whose?”

 

“She never knew his name,” Rylen said. “A traveller, hurt — hiding in the hills, so an outlaw or fugitive, likely.”

 

“Or apostate,” Cullen said, thinking of Fel’s extravagant, unlikely mage-gift. _That fair hair_ _… When did Anders reach Kirkwall? Did he travel straight from Amaranthine, or … ?_

 

“Or apostate,” Rylen agreed. He grinned briefly. “Well-favoured, she said, and herself just a girl. She nursed him back to health, one thing led to another —”

 

“As you apparently have some recent experience with,” Cullen said dryly, and Rylen coloured again.

 

“I’m not proud of it. I am proud to give her, and our son, my name.” He drained the last of his tea. “I’ve brought her from Redcliffe with me. We’ll wed as soon as it can be arranged.”

 

“I wish you every happiness,” Cullen said, and then with a pang realised what the wedding might mean. “And she’ll want her daughter with her, too.”

 

Rylen paused. “I think …”

 

Cullen seized on the opening. “Unless, with a new child … Fel’s been doing duty as my squire, well, in a fashion. I’d be glad to leave things as they are, if it suits her mother — and you.”

 

“It does,” Rylen said with evident relief.

 

“Then it’s settled,” Cullen said. He smiled. “So tell me about your son.”

 

“He’s a fine strong lad,” Rylen said proudly. “He’ll be a bonny fighter, for sure, he already has a grip like a vice.”

 

“Name?”

 

“Well, uh …” Rylen cleared his throat. “Anandra had named him by the time I got to Redcliffe. Not that I would have disagreed with her choice, mind, not after she told me … but it _was_ her idea, and her own only. His name is, um … Cullen.”

 

Cullen stared at him, realised his mouth was hanging open and shut it with  a snap. “Sweet Maker, I’m glad you were there to swear he’s yours, or I would have had Rennett at Skyhold gates demanding satisfaction!”

 

“She’s grateful for what you did,” Rylen said. “For her, and for Felandaris. She does love the girl, Commander, it’s just that she’s a handful.”

 

“And a half,” Cullen said with feeling. He began to chuckle. “I’m flattered, but Maker’s breath!  A _thank you_ would have been enough!”

 

“Think how _I_ feel,” Rylen said wryly. “I’m going to have to find him a nickname or I’ll find myself saluting every time he comes to the dinner table.”

 

When he told Killeen, she laughed. “Good thing you’d already vetoed the idea of your son being your namesake,” she said, hands spread over the now-perceptible bulge at her midsection.

 

She was so sure that she was carrying a boy that Cullen had begun to find himself sharing her conviction. “Confusing to have both of us come running every time you called either of us.”

 

“That’s not why, and you know it.” She stepped close to him and nuzzled his cheek, then moved her lips to his ear and whispered, “There’s a certain way I like to say the name _Cullen._ Oh, Cullen, yes, please, like that, Cullen …” She ran her fingers down his chest and then lower, cupping him through his breeches. “Oh, Cullen …”

 

“The children are just down the hall,” he said hoarsely, hips jerking involuntarily.

 

“We have a door with a lock,” Killeen pointed out.

 

He lost no time hustling her behind it.

 

Although her stomach had swelled only to the point where, naked, she was unmistakably with child — the midwife’s best guess was that she had conceived in Kirkwall — for the first time, as Killeen lay back on the bed, Cullen found himself gazing at her body and seeing not only _my love, my soon-to-be-wife,_ but the unborn babe within her. Perhaps it had been Rylen’s irrepressible smile when he spoke of his _fine, strong lad_ , or perhaps that the movements he could feel through her skin had been stronger, that evening, than ever before — but he hesitated, cock softening. 

 

Killeen raised herself on her elbows, and then fell back, staring up at the ceiling. “Would it help if you blow out the lamp?”

 

“What? No!” Cullen said, startled.

 

“I know I’m not … the same. I understand that you ... I can sleep somewhere else, you know.”

 

“Killeen.” He stretched out beside her and gathered her in his arms. “Why would you do that?”

 

“Cullen, do you think you can rise every morning hours before dawn without me knowing? You don’t want to be here with me, well, that’s especially clear _now_ , but you can’t go on scanting yourself on sleep like this.

 

“No, no, my love, no,” Cullen said. “It isn’t — I do want to be with you. I miss waking in the morning with you. And I don’t want you to blow out the lamp, Killeen, you dolt, I love to look at you, more than ever. I just … suddenly felt as if we were being … _observed._ ” He rested his hand on her stomach. “As if there were three of us in the bed.”

 

“Is that why you leave?” she asked. “Because there’s three of us in the bed?”

 

“No,” he said. “It’s —” He paused. “The roof.”  Slowly, haltingly, he admitted it – the choking sense of weight above him, in any small room – being closed in, _sealed_ in — worse in the winter, with the shutters closed against the cold. “Since Kinloch. I thought it was gone, or at least, better — it only bothered me a few times in Kirkwall, in Orlais — but it isn’t. Perhaps the same room each night, the same ceiling …”

 

She rolled over onto her side, facing him. “Cullen, you idiot,” she said, “promise me that when you get up in the middle of the night you’ll go to your bed in your loft and not to your desk. Even Dennet has started to make ribald remarks about me wearing you out. When a man who can’t be relied on to know one face from another unless it’s got ears and a mane notices you’re tired ...”

 

Cullen found himself smiling. “All right. But …”

 

“ _But_ nothing,” Killeen said firmly.  “I’ll figure something out, even if it means getting permission to put a hole in the wall. In the meantime, put some more wood on the fire.”

 

Cullen raised an eyebrow. The room was already comfortably warm.

 

“Cullen, if I’m going to sleep with the shutters open, I’d like to wake up without my eyelashes frozen shut. Put some more wood on the fire, open the shutters, and come to bed.”


	107. In The Rain - Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killeen takes matters into her own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

**26th Wintermarch - 16th Drakonis**

 

* * *

 

It _was_ better with the shutters open. In the weeks that followed, Cullen found himself more often than not waking with the dawn, Killeen curled against him. _A few nights of broken sleep a week is tolerable_ , he thought, _given how many years it was when I would have thought one sound night_ _’s sleep a month to be more than I dared hope for._ More often than not, too, he found himself — to Killeen’s loudly expressed satisfaction — able to ignore the slightly nagging feeling of being _watched_ by his unborn son, although he could never ignore the sense of constraint fear of _harming_ the child brought, never truly lose himself in their lovemaking as she did. 

 

Wintersend came and went that way. Harritt finished Cullen’s new armour, indistinguishable from his old in appearance but stronger and, at the end of a long day, noticeably lighter. Rylen settled in to his new role. Anandra began, tentatively, to get used to the idea that her headstrong daughter was a mage. Fel was learning some simple, rudimentary spells, although at Cullen’s request she didn’t practice them at home.

 

Killeen would bring even the most minor injuries to Fel — a scalded finger from spilt tea, a splinter, a blister — and Fel would heal them, gravely accept Killeen’s thanks.  Cullen himself tolerated such discomforts until they healed naturally. Partly, it seemed to him to be wasteful, although he knew that in fact it was valuable practice.

 

Partly, he could not reconcile the little girl who’d run away from home for the sake of her kitten with the mage-child whose glowing hands could hold back death itself.

 

_She_ _’s still Fel_ , he told himself, knew it was true, and yet … if he asked her to heal a bruise, a graze, taken in the training ring, and she did, it would be the absolute proof, in his own flesh and blood, that she was Fel _and more_ these days.

 

So he never asked.

 

Guardian brought news of Jean, via Leliana — she was in Antiva, and had begun a business exporting fine silks to Denerim. _More sense than I_ _’d thought she had_ , was Killeen’s only comment. When Guardian brought, also, a letter from her mother, Killeen said nothing at all, but put it in the fire once she’d read it.

 

_Many things can be mended, with time and effort_ , Leliana said to Cullen quietly as they left the War Room the next day. _Some, however, cannot_.

 

The Skyhold Guard began to take shape to Killeen’s satisfaction — and she had to ask Master Harritt to add a new, longer buckle to the lowest fastening of her mail coat. He did, then grunted and started work on another fold for the coat to be added when it would no longer close at all. Cullen thought of asking him not to: if Killeen couldn’t get her armour on, she’d be forced to stay in her office, and well away from any brawls out in the tent-city beyond the gates.

 

Then he remembered her taking on a dragon in her shirt and breeches, and kept his mouth closed.

 

He could hope that she was learning caution, anyway, and she certainly spent less time patrolling with her Guards and more time talking over the building works the Inquisitor had proposed for the tent-city. _If they_ _’re going to live there whether we like it or not,_ Lady Trevelyan had said, _and they_ are _unless I_ _’m willing to burn their tents down around them, then we do have a responsibility to see they have proper shelter and safety. And latrines._

Whether it should really have fallen to Killeen or not, it kept her studying maps and plans and talking to dwarfs. Cullen was careful to keep his approval of that situation behind his teeth. He was careful, too, not to argue when she shot him a glare for hurrying to pick something up before she could try to lift it, or served her a second helping before she asked. His experience with women in her condition might be extremely limited, but his brother and brothers-in-law had given him the benefit of their experience, which boiled down to: _She_ _’s always right. You’re always wrong. Rub her feet every night._

That last, she was loudly grateful for, especially on days when she’d been largely on her feet.

 

The presence of substantial fortifications in the plans for the growing city outside the gates was one sign that the Inquisitor was preparing Skyhold to withstand an attack: the increasing number of wagons laden with stores making their way up the mountain road, despite the spring rain and the resulting mud, was another. And for days, the mages were everywhere around the fortress, robes whipping in the sharp Drakonis wind, hauling books and baskets of potions and other things it didn’t repay a man to look at too closely across from their tower to the one at the other end of the fortress. Cullen approved of the idea: they’d have less distance to travel, and all of it under cover, if called on to held defend the gates.

 

Cullen himself was almost as busy as he had been during the war against Corypheus, between necessary maintenance to the fortifications, testing of trebuchets, and extra drills for the troops — all with Rylen’s assistance rather than Killeen’s.

 

_Man_ _’s doing his best,_ he thought, hunching his shoulders against the night’s drizzling rain as he trudged back down to the lower courtyard after one more day that had begun before dawn and was ending now long after dark. _And if I_ _’d never met Killeen, I’d think him outstanding at his job_.

 

“Cullen!” the Inquisitor called from the steps that led to the Great Hall.

 

There was a part of him that wanted to groan in protest at being further delayed from his meal, and his chair by the fire, and the children, and most of all Killeen, but he was drilled in duty, and it was only a small part, easily throttled into submission. He turned and started back up the stairs to the upper courtyard, looking up through the thin spring rain at Lady Trevelyan as she leaned down towards him. “What is it, Inquisitor?”

 

She gave him a grin wide enough to be seen even in the chancy light of the torches. “Catch,” she said, and dropped the long, thin object she was holding.

 

He caught it, thinking it was her staff, and further suspecting that she had been drinking with the Bull again — but his hands closed on leather, not wood, and he realised he was holding a scabbarded sword.

 

He recognised it instantly. _Stormheart and silverite, and a great blue gem on the hilt charmed to help the sword strike true._

“ _Is_ it Kill’s?” Lady Trevelyan asked.

 

“Yes,” he said. “How did you find it?”

 

“Leliana has her ways,” the Inquisitor said, with the innocent expression that he most often saw from her about three minutes before he lost his shirt — once literally — at Wicked Grace.

 

It was a shocking waste of Inquisition resources, on a purely personal matter.

 

It was entirely typical of Evelyn Trevelyan.

 

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. “She regretted its loss.”

 

“I know,” the Inquisitor said. “Better go give it to her. She’s still in the mages’ tower.”

 

He raised the sword in a gesture of salute and acknowledgement, and started back toward the upper levels of the keep.

 

As he rounded the last corner of the stairs and started along the battlements, something tugged at his attention. He stopped, trying to place it. _The guards are where they should be, all the torches are lit_ _…_

The mages’ banner was missing. Cullen tilted his head back to see if it had been moved to a higher vantage point, but it hadn’t — although he could detect something different at the top of the tower, half-seen in the rainy dark.  _Have they been building here too?_

 

_Well, of course they have. Why else would Killeen be here, but to oversee some improvements to the fortifications?_

He had genuinely forgotten, until he opened the door to the tower, that any repairs to the fortress were now Rylen’s to supervise. Remembering, he thought _Then why_ _… ?_ and then stopped dead at the sight that met his eyes.

 

Cullen had been in the tower only a few times. It was a long way from Kinloch but a room full of mages was still not something he relished and, as he’d said to Alistair, deliberately putting himself in a room full of lyrium without good reason was being, in Killeen’s words, _a bigger fool than he was born._ Then _,_ the walls had been crammed with creaking shelves holding musty books and jars of odd substances, tables and desks shoved in every available space —

 

All were gone. A table and chairs sat in one corner, several comfortable chairs drawn close to a blazing fire. His armour stand was by the door, Killeen’s beside it with her mail coat on it. One shelf held a few books, ink and parchment … his familiar carved box.

 

Cullen climbed the stairs and on the second floor found the tower partitioned into several small cells, beds in two, cots in the others. Another floor up, to where a staircase led to the roof, and a new wooden wall concealed a pump, a bath, dwarven plumbing.

 

“Killeen?”

 

He emerged onto the roof and stopped, stunned.

 

The low walls around the roof had been raised to above head height. Arrow slits broke the stone. Across half the room, a wooden roof had been built, but across the other half, a riot of dogwood and ivy and climbing roses and other plants he couldn’t immediately identify sprouted from the walls and arched, entwined, across the space, a roof in the open air, shelter from the worst of the elements that didn’t close them out.

 

Or close him in.

 

Rain dripped gently through the leaves and flowers to patter on the stone flags. A profusion of thick rugs and animal pelts were scattered over the half of the floor that the wooden ceiling kept dry, and a massive fireplace piled with burning logs blazed by a bed piled high with furs.

 

On her hands and knees on the other side of the room, Killeen was putting the final touches of whitewash on the walls.

 

He set her sword gently on the floor. “Killeen,” he said again, had to clear his throat. “Killeen.”

 

She turned, then carefully put the brush back into the dish of whitewash, pushed her hair from her face, and looked at him, expression neutral. “I asked the Inquisitor which bit of the keep I could knock a hole in. She had her own ideas about fitting accommodation for her Commander and his family.”

 

“It’s perfect,” Cullen said, and Killeen’s careful composure broke into a look of relief, and then smug satisfaction.

 

She started to get up, levering herself up with her hand on her knee, and Cullen climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and hurried to help her. “I know it’s not your tower,” she said softly.

 

“Killeen,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. “This is … I don’t have words. But do you … you hate the cold.”

 

“I do,” she said. “And my bed is _very_ cold when I wake without you in it. And since you swore to keep me warm, it’s your job to bring up the wood for the fire.”

 

“Fair,” he said. “And we might need to put up canvas if there’s heavy snow.”

 

Killeen pointed to what Cullen could now see was a roll of canvas along the wall. “Thought of. The flowers won’t bloom this early every year, either. Fel helped them along, to make it a proper surprise. She’s getting quite good with plants, you know.”

 

“Did you do all this yourself? You shouldn’t — have you been resting enough?”

 

“Cullen, I’m fine,” she said, laughing. “Of course I didn’t do it all myself. Most it was dwarfs. I did a lot of _supervising_.”

 

“Supervising sitting down?”

 

It was unwise of him, he knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but fortunately Killeen was clearly too pleased with the success of her surprise to take umbrage. She grinned at him instead, and pulled her shirt tight over her stomach. “Look. Half the builders have _beer guts_ bigger than that, and _they_ still toss rocks and beams around.”

 

He pressed his hands to her stomach, waiting for the flutter of movement. “Humour me. Don’t toss anything heavier than a pillow for three more months.” After a moment he frowned. “Are you sure he’s all right?”

 

“Just wait a moment,” Killeen said calmly. “He’s been asleep for a while, but — ”

 

On cue, Cullen felt a movement beneath his palm, not the sharp vibration of past weeks,  enough to bounce his fingers on Killeen’s belly, but the strong, glancing pressure he was becoming used to, like an elbow or knee gliding past him on the other side of some thick drapery. The muscles beneath his hands tensed, and he guessed the child’s kicks were strong enough now to hurt Killeen. “What does the midwife say about you taking up building as a hobby?”

 

Killeen rolled her eyes. “ _Cullen_. You know very well she said I could do whatever I’d normally do, unless I had any pain or bleeding, which I haven’t. You were _there._ ”

 

“Perhaps you should ask her again.”

 

She sighed. “I will, when I see her next week, if it’ll calm you down. Stop fretting, and tell me how much you like our tower again.”

 

“I like it very much,” he assured her, and remembered her sword. “Killeen, look,” he said, turning to pick it up, and holding it out to her across his palms.

 

She took it. “This is …”

 

“Leliana found it. Lady Trevelyan arranged for it to be retrieved.”

 

Killeen drew the sword, as if she couldn’t be quite sure it really was her own until she’d tested the balance, and then sheathed it carefully. “I’d trade it again for you in a heartbeat. But I’m glad to have both.” She leaned it carefully against the foot of the bed, and then reached out and hooked her fingers in the fur of his cloak. “Come here.”

 

He let her pull him to her, folded her gently in his arms as the rain dripped through the branches above them and the fire crackled on the hearth. “Where are the children?”

 

“With Mia,” Killeen said. She grinned at him, twined her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and whispered against his lips, “ _All_ night.”

 

“You think of everything,” he said, forcing himself to caress her with the lightest of touches when he urgently wanted to throw her on the bed and rip the clothes from her body. Even the floor, with its thick carpet of rugs and furs … _No, carefully, carefully,_ he told himself, although his pulse was racing until its thunder shook his whole body.

 

She gave him a sly smile, unlacing the points of his cuirass. “I’m only thinking of _one_ thing right now …” His armour came free and she tossed it aside with a clang, then took hold of his belt. “And _here_ it is.”

 

His eyes closed involuntarily at her touch. He forced them open immediately, not wanting to miss an instant of the sight of her face, her lower lip caught between her teeth, the flush rising in her cheeks. _Oh, sweet Maker_ _…_ Hastily, he stripped off his gauntlets and seized her face between his hands, capturing her mouth, tasting her deeply, greedily, as she unfastened his belt and slipped her hand into his breeches. He thrust into her touch, moving her backwards to the bed.

 

She gasped, and he realised how hard he was holding her. He let go immediately, dropping his hands to her shoulders, leaning his forehead against hers. “Forgive me,” he panted.

 

“For what?” Her hand continued its maddening, intoxicating movement.

 

“For … Killeen, wait. _Wait_.”

 

She stopped immediately. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing. Maker, the _opposite_. I … I need a moment to get control of myself.”

 

“Don’t you know by now that’s the _last_ thing I want?” Killeen said.

 

He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or the child.”

 

“You _know_ the midwife said …” She stopped. “You’ve been so very tender with me. I thought it was sentiment. But it really worries you, doesn’t it?”

 

He nodded, his breathing beginning to slow to that a man who’d climbed several flights of stairs, rather than a man who’d run ten miles in full armour. “If I allowed myself to, Killeen, _Maker_ , I’d … but I can’t. Whatever the midwife said, I can’t risk it.”

 

“Cullen, my darling, my beautiful fool,” Killeen said, taking his hand. “ _No wonder_ you can’t sleep. Come here.” When he hesitated, she tugged him firmly towards the bed. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.”

 

“Not at _all_?” he couldn’t help saying plaintively.

 

“Not at all. Take off your clothes.” She skinned her own shirt over her head and dropped her breeches, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her, her long limbs and soft curves painted gold and orange by the firelight. She smiled, and lay down on the bed. “Go on. I’m not going to do it for you. No touching, remember?”

 

He undressed, hampered by his shaking hands, and stretched out beside her.

 

She rolled over to face him, propping her head on one hand. “I’ve told you I used to think about you, _before_ , haven’t I?”

 

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

 

Her finger trailed down to her breast, toyed with the nipple, and his cock twitched urgently. “Did you think about me?” she asked.

 

“All too often,” he admitted.

 

“I used to touch myself, when I did.” Her hand moved over the swell of her belly, dipped between her legs. “Like this. Did you, when you thought about me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Show me,” she said.

 

His breath was fast and thick, his pulse thundering in his ears, as he closed his hand around himself.  “I would dream about you … wake wanting you so much, needing you …” His fingers circled the tip of his cock, traced the length, and Killeen’s eyes darkened, her lips parted.

 

“Did you lie on your back?” When he shook his head, she said again, “Show me.”

 

He rolled over to his side, then his stomach, head turned to hold her gaze. Pinned between his weight and the bed, his cock throbbed in his grip. His hips moved, delicious friction scattering his thoughts.

 

“What did you used to think about?” Killeen said breathlessly, her own hand moving faster.

 

“About you, looking like that. About your hand, instead of my hand. About how you’d sound. Saying my name.”

 

She leaned closer. “Cullen,” she whispered in his ear. “Cullen, yes, please, like that, please, Cullen, please…”

 

He gripped himself more tightly, hips moving faster. “Yes,” he gasped. “Yes.”

 

“I used to think about you,” she said, her hand moving between her legs. “That my hand was your hand. Touching me, like this. Please, Cullen, like that, yes, please … After you fell asleep in the loft I’d lie on my pallet and — ”

 

The image sent a blaze of heat surging from his balls to the tip of his cock. His hand tightened and he pumped hard against it, needing, wanting, _Maker, yes_ _…_

 

“I’d imagine how you’d look, like that, with your eyes closed, wanting me, letting yourself lose yourself …”

 

“Killeen,” he gasped. “Killeen …” He needed _more_ , needed _harder_ , could give in to the urgency raging through him because no matter how hard he ground against the bed it wouldn’t hurt her, because she was _with_ him but safe from any harm he might do her. The heat and pressure built and burnt and he was close, so close, and she was moaning his name, her head thrown back and her fingers rubbing and pressing faster and faster as his own hand moved faster and faster …

 

“There, yes, _there —_ ” she cried and he came with a keen surge of pleasure that took his breath away, milking his climax with his fist, watching Killeen as she curled around her hand and then shuddered and shook and groaned his name. 

 

“Oh, Cullen,” she murmured, throwing her leg over his and riding his thigh through the aftershocks. “Oh, Cullen, yes —” Her voice changed and he realised it was no longer aftershocks she was riding, held her tight as she panted and ground against him and then shivered with another release, crying, “Oh, my love, my love …”

 

He rubbed her back until her breathing slowed to normal, until she was no longer shaking and twitching against him but heavy and slack in his arms.

 

“Better?” she murmured.

 

“Better,” he said dazedly, limbs heavy and loose, warmth running through his veins, mind hazy.

 

“Good,” she mumbled, turned her face into his shoulder and went suddenly to sleep.

 

Cullen managed to keep his eyes open a little longer, looking up at the flowers laced together against the starry night, running his fingers through her hair, until finally his eyelids were too heavy for him to resist the urge to close them and he drifted slowly into sleep.

 

And woke in the depths of the night to the alarm bell.


	108. On The Walls - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a number of questions are answered.

_17th Drakonis_

 

 

* * *

 

The bells rang throughout the castle, tumbling off-duty guards and soldiers from their beds. _Arm-and-out! Arm-and-out!_ Healers and medics scrambled to set the infirmary in readiness while sleepy-eyed stable-hands double-checked tack and harness. _Arm-and-out! Arm-and-out!_

Killeen rolled out of bed, seized her sword, and headed for the stairs. Cullen caught up his armour and was right behind her as she pounded down to the lower floor and grabbed her mail coat.

 

His cuirass fell ringing to the floor and his hands closed over hers. “Killeen!”

 

“I’ve got a job to do,” she snapped. “Cullen, don’t be a bigger fool than you were born! If it comes to the Guard fighting, we’re all going to be so far up to our arses in unpleasantness hiding in here won’t do me any good, but meanwhile people are going to be frightened and it’s my job to keep everyone calm.” She yanked her hands free from his, swung the coat on and fastened as many of the buckles as she could. “The Inquisitor will need you. Go! Go do your job and let me do mine!”

 

He wanted to argue, she could see it in his face, but the clamour of the bells was an urgency no soldier could ignore and when she scooped up his armour and began to put it on him his fingers moved to fasten the buckles with the automatic ease of long practice.

 

She left him to it, raced out the door and down the stone steps to the courtyard.

 

Alistair was there already, hair flattened with sleep but arms and armour in good order, and he fell into step with her, rattling off the orders he’d already given — those too young or old or ill to fight moved to the Undercroft, able-bodied civilians set to moving stores and hauling water for the bucket-teams who’d respond to any fires —

 

“Good,” Killeen said, and meant it. She’d occasionally doubted the wisdom of bringing him to Skyhold and giving him such a responsible role, but if he drank, it was off duty, and if he was no trained Guard he was a fast learner, with good instincts and a gift for defusing heated situations. “Well done.”

 

She glanced up at the sky, a reflex of the previous year she’d and everyone else who’d lived through the Inquisition’s first year would never be able to shake, but there was no eerie green glow of a breach, just the shining blanket of stars spread over them and the silhouette of figures on the wall, looking down in the direction of the valley outside.

 

One of those figures turned, the glow of her mage’s staff gleaming faintly off her fair hair, and beckoned.

 

“The Inquisitor wants us,” Killeen said, and led the way across the crowded courtyard to the other stairs.

 

She couldn’t move as quickly as she’d like, because the sight of the Guard-Commander running full-pelt was likely to start a thread of panic running through the crowd, and so she walked briskly with a nod and a smile to those whose gaze she caught, a quick _Good work there._ And then she was on the stairs, and around the corner, and broke into a jog with Alistair behind her, through Cullen’s office, out the other door and along the wall.

 

They were almost all there, she noted as she reached the Inquisitor: Cullen, of course, Bull and Dorian, Leliana blending in with the shadows, Varric looking down into the valley like it had just taken a shit on his floor, Sera perched on the wall, Lady Cassandra glaring at everyone impartially and Blackwall even grimmer than usual.

 

Killeen moved unobtrusively to where the Inquisitor would see her if she looked, and gazed down at what they were all looking at.

 

Beyond the mass of tents and shelters outside the gates, the plain of the valley ran beside the river until both river and road disappeared into the pass. And on that plain …

 

 _Well, shit_. The twinkling lights of torches — a lot of torches, an army of torches. _We_ _’re under attack._

The Inquisitor glared at them. “I expected her to come — but not yet! She can’t have marched in this weather! It’s impossible!”

 

_She. Anora?_

 

“Not with mages,” Blackwall said glumly.

 

“I’m a fucking mage! It’s impossible, even with mages. And even mages couldn’t get past our scouts!”

 

“Mages fuelled by blood magic,” Leliana said tonelessly. “We believed that the closeness of Langlois to Tevinter explained the Marchioness’s involvement. I did not look further. But Babette Fournier was ruined by the freak storm that hit Orlais in Kingsway. She was one of the greatest beneficiaries of Queen Anora’s loans. Inquisitor, forgive me. I failed you.”

 

“She will never breach these walls,” Cassandra said. “Even with blood mages.”

 

“She doesn’t need to,” Bull rumbled. He pointed with one massive, stubby finger: the collection of tents and wooden buildings outside the gates. “Just because _she_ _’s_ got a heart like a splinter of ice doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand other people don’t.”

 

Killeen could imagine it: the army approaching sweeping through those crowded, flimsy shelters, bringing fire and the sword. The screams, the panic: the deaths.

 

“Inquisitor, we cannot get them inside and the gates closed before Anora’s army is upon us,” Cullen said. His voice was cool, professional, but his hands were clenched on his sword-belt in a white-knuckled grip.

 

“I know,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Andraste’s arse! I didn’t count on blood mages. Venatori, I bet.”

 

“Babette Fournier was not the _she_ in that letter,” Cassandra said. “ _Anora_ has been sheltering the Venetori, allowing them to regain their strength.”

 

“Maker’s balls, what can she possibly want worth dealing with _those_ cunts?” Blackwall asked.

 

“And why try to kill the Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked. “What does she have to gain?”

 

“Fear is a more powerful motivation even than greed,” Bull said. He eyed Lady Trevelyan. “Boss, you want to tell us what you’ve done?”

 

The Inquisitor glared at him, and then sighed. “I _suspected_ she wanted me stopped on the chance I might gain something valuable to her. I think now we have proof I’ve got it.”

 

“Now I did _tell_ you that no good would come of letting turning Sera loose in Denerim,” Dorian said lightly. “Which one of the crown jewels has she pinched from the royal treasury? All of them?”

 

“Me,” Alistair said suddenly. They all turned to look at him and he gave a wry grin. “I mean, not to be too full of myself, but it’s me, isn’t it? Maric’s son?”

 

“Alistair,” Leliana said, and her voice was gentler than Killeen would have thought possible from Sister Nightingale.  “It is not only because you are Maric’s son. It is because you are _yourself_. The man who fought bloody battles to end the Blight. The man the whole Landsmeet saw stand true to his brother’s memory even at the price of the Throne of Ferelden, and his own life.”

 

“That was a very long time ago,” Alistair said.

 

“People do not forget, when the undead come howling down on them and a man stands in their way. People do not forget, when they visit King Cailan’s memorial, the brother who braved the ruins of Ostagar to give him pyre fit for a King. People do not forget, as Anora’s grasp on Ferelden tightens, the man who would not wear the crown if the price was to no longer be worthy of it.” 

 

“That man’s long gone,” Alistair said. “I’ve spent _ten years_ making sure that man’s long gone. And he was a fool, not some paragon of Blighted virtue!”

 

“And yet here we are,” Leliana said. “Anora could not give Cailan an heir. She has not remarried, and if she has paramours, their seed has never quickened in her womb. And if she bears a child? He or she will not be of Calenhad’s line. Noble families see the inevitable contest for the Throne that will come when she dies, and though they shift and struggle for position, none relish the idea of civil war.  Old songs are sung, Alistair, despite all Anora’s attempts to stop them. Old stories are told, even if she has never allowed them to be written down. From the streets of Denerim to the great halls of the Arls, people long for the throne to be held by someone good, and kind, and who will give them an heir and the stability that guarantees.”

 

“Then they’re whistling in the wind,” Alistair said. “How many Grey Wardens do you know with happy family lives?”

 

Leliana folded her arms. “Did you never wonder why, when every Grey Warden in Thedas heard Corypheus Calling, you did not?”

 

“Not the first time I’ve been too drunk to hear the alarm,” Alistair said.

 

“It is not what _you_ drank, Alistair Theirin,” Leliana said. “It was what your ancestor did.” She turned. “It was the Iron Bull who revealed the truth to me.”

 

“If you like,” Bull said with a shrug. “I’d call it _shared some old bullshit stories_ , but _revealed the truth_ works too. According to the Qun, Calenhad Theirin drank the blood of a dragon and gained some of its power. That power passed down to his descendants — and you have to admit, one family holding all these quarrelling doglords on a leash for all these years sounds a little bit more than human.” He paused, glancing at the Inquisitor. “No offence, Boss.”  

 

“None taken,” the Inquisitor said. “And you _are_ capable of giving Ferelden an heir, Alistair. One of the women in this castle told me a story, not long ago, as she nursed her new babe at her breast. There was a night, some years ago, when a heartsick exile crept back to the lands where he grew up. Under sentence of death, he hid in the hills, cold and hunger taking their toll. A young woman searching for roots beneath the snow found him, near death and not much caring that he was. She took him to her home at Redcliffe Crossroads, fed him, warmed him … comforted him.”

 

“Sweet Maker!” Cullen said. “ _Anandra._ ”

 

“After he had gone on his way, accepting he could no longer stay in the land that he loved, she discovered she was with child …”

 

“ _Fel?_ _”_ Killeen burst out. “ _Fel_ is a fucking princess of Ferelden?”

 

“But she’s a mage!” Alistair said. “I’m not a mage. Is her mother a mage? Even a little bit, you know, mage-y? Mage-ish?”

 

“It does not show in every generation,” Leliana said.

 

“Maker’s fucking _balls_!” Killeen said.

 

“Not the _Maker_ _’s_ balls, in this case,” Blackwall pointed out with a grin.

 

“So, what?” Alistair demanded. “What was your plan? Bring me here, sober me up, _butter_ me up, plant me on the Throne as the Inquisition’s puppet King? No _thank you_.”

 

“My plan was to bring you here and keep you safe,” Lady Trevelyan said. “What else, I intended to leave up to you, once you knew the truth. I’m sorry for you to learn it all at once like this, but …” She gestured out at the valley, the torches of the army closer now. “I thought I had more time. My hand has been forced.”

 

Alistair reeled to the balustrade and clutched it, staring out into the night. For a moment Killeen thought he was about to haul himself over it and she tensed to lunge forward and seize him before he could — but he only stood, staring. “She’s here for me,” he said. “She’ll tear those people out there apart to force you to give me to her — or to fight her, on ground where you can’t win, and then take me over your bodies. That’s it, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” the Inquisitor said.

 

Alistair turned, and gave a shaky approximation of his usual grin. “Well, then,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “You’d better give me to her before it comes to that, hadn’t you?”

 

“No —” Killeen said, and Cassandra, their voices lost beneath Sera’s.

 

“That’s fucking shite, right?” the elf said loudly. “I’ll kill a lot of poor bastards who have nothing to do with nothing if you don’t give me what I want is just blackmail, and not the nice sort. Today it’s _I_ _’ll kill them if you don’t give me one of your people_ and tomorrow it’s _I_ _’ll kill them if you don’t give me little cakes_ , innit? That’s how the maddies always end up, killing people over pastries. I vote we go down there and fuck her up, like good and proper.”

 

“I’m touched,” Alistair said. “Not least by being almost as valuable to you as cake. But —”

 

“Shut it, you,” Sera said. “You don’t get a vote. Not if you’re some sort of supposed-to-be King, right, because Kings, and democracy, they go together like bees and underwear.” When everyone stared at her, she explained,  “Things that don’t go together at all, thickies. Well, not bees and your own underwear. Bees and other people’s underwear? Hours of fun. Anyway, I don’t like you, because, King. But you’re still probably better than An-whora, because, royal _and_ a right bitchface.”

 

Alistair looked slightly bewildered for a moment, and then comprehension dawned. “I’m not a King and, it very much looks like, not going to live to be one, even if I wanted to. But I do seem to recall that letting a whole lot of people be slaughtered just to save one’s own skin isn’t a very kingly thing to do. One is supposed to be slaughtered instead of them — or with them, in the worst of all possible worlds. I’ve been living in the worst of all possible worlds for quite a long time now and I’d like to _stop_ doing that. If Anora wants me, let her have me.”

 

“That is very noble,” Cassandra said impassively. “Also very stupid.”

 

Alistair grinned at her. “One out of two isn’t bad.”

 

“What about Fel?” Killeen demanded. “What happens when Anora finds out about Fel?”

 

“What happens when Fel finds out about Anora is a better question,” Alistair said. “You obviously haven’t spent much time with mages holding grudges. It tends to be … very loud. Besides, she’s no threat to Anora. A mage could never take the throne. I haven’t got any _non_ magical bastards running around anywhere, have I?”

 

“Not to my knowledge,” Leliana said. “And I have looked.”

 

“Then let’s get this over with,” Alistair said.

 

The Inquisitor nodded, and Killeen felt a brief, bright blaze of disappointment as a hard clench in her gut. _This is_ not _how the Inquisition is supposed to act. We do_ not _send a good man to his death rather than fight._ She looked at Cullen in mute appeal, and saw his eyes chill and shadowed before he looked away.

 

The Inquisitor turned to face out over the valley. “Dorian, that party trick that lets the bards be heard in the Great Hall even when everyone’s talking … how far can you scale that up?”

 

“Far enough,” Dorian said. His voice was clipped, and Lady Trevelyan shot a glance at him.

 

So softly Killeen couldn’t be sure she’d heard correctly, the Inquisitor breathed, “Trust me one more time, my dear friend. Have I failed you yet?”

 

The Tevinter mage hesitated, and then gave the slightest nod.

 

“Guard-Commander, I want everyone indoors, out of sight. When Anora rides through those gates, there’s not a single non-combatant in Skyhold as far as she knows.”

 

“ _Rides in through those gates?_ _”_ Cullen burst out. “Inquisitor —”

 

Lady Trevelyan talked over him. “Commander, pull all your troops back to the inner walls. They guard the doors, no more. No sword is to be drawn unless that bitch threatens our people, understand?”

 

He held her gaze, and then bowed his head. “Inquisitor,” he said crisply, and went.

 

Given her orders, Killeen followed him. She caught him up on the stairs. “She’s lost her mind,” she said.

 

Cullen stopped, then turned and so quickly she gasped in startlement, seized her face between his gauntleted hands and kissed her hard.  “I don’t understand either,” he said, “but I have never known Lady Trevelyan to play Wicked Grace without an extra card up her sleeve. Go. Get everyone out of sight, and stay there yourself.”

 

As Killeen headed back down to the courtyard she could hear the Inquisitor’s voice, magically amplified, behind her. Dorian’s spell was not directed at those _inside_ the castle, and although Killeen could hear the tone of Lady Trevelyan’s voice, she couldn’t make out any of the words.

 

By the time Killeen and her Guards had chivvied and coaxed every civilian up stairs and through doors and into the most secure rooms that could be found, she could hear the hoof-beats of the approaching army on the bridge.

 

Cullen had told her to stay out of sight, and although he couldn’t give her orders anymore, she knew it was cold good sense. Whatever was going to happen out there in the courtyard when Anora came through the gates, the fact that there were blood mages involved who were powerful enough to astonish the Inquisitor presaged nothing good.

 

But if something happened, it was going to happen _out there_ , and there was no good she could do _in here_ , and she might be carrying a child but she was still Guard-Commander of the Skyhold Guard. _And how do I explain to my son in years hence that I cowered indoors when the enemy was not just at, but_ within _the gates?_

 

She pressed her hands to the swell of her belly and wished, desperately, hopelessly, that she could simply take it off and leave it safely in another’s care, as she had left Thomas and Fel to Mia.

 

But that was a magic no mage had yet discovered, and even it had been possible, she was not a mage, she was just a Guard with a sword and a talent for sticking it into things.

 

She looked down. “I promise to be strategic,” she whispered, “if you promise to stay quiet and not distract me. Deal?”

 

A movement she could feel in her hand even through her mail. _I_ _’ll take that as a yes_.

 

She edged back out through the door and closed it gently behind her. In front of her, the solid shoulders of Inquisition soldiers, standing between the people of Skyhold and any harm. From her vantage point, she could see past them to the empty lower courtyard.

 

The gate clanked up.


	109. In The Courtyard - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, certain things are resolved.

_17th Drakonis_

 

* * *

 

A solid group of knights on horseback swept through the opened gates first. Killeen recognised the sigil of the Queen’s personal guard on many shields, but there was the stooping falcon of Edgehall as well, which was no surprise — and the bull’s head of West Hills, which _was_. 

 

Rainesfere and Winter’s Breath were there as well. _Anora has more loyalty among the Arls and Banns than Lady Trevelyan thought._

 

The knights formed up in a loose circle, facing outward, and only then did the mages come through the gate. Their garb was unmistakable. _Venatori_. _I don_ _’t give Anora a snowflake’s chance in the Forbidden Oasis once they’ve got what they want from her._ They too faced outward, making an inner ring behind the armoured knights.

 

And then the Queen rode in, small and slight and very upright on a huge white charger far too big for her.

 

With a crash and a rumble, the gate came slamming down. A couple of the knights glanced that way at the sound, uneasily, and Anora turned her head to look back over her shoulder, then faced front again. “If you force me to have that gate opened again, Inquisitor, your people outside will regret it.”

 

“The gates will be opened at your request, Anora,” the Inquisitor’s voice called. Killeen turned to see her standing on the steps that led down from the upper courtyard, framed by flickering torches held by Blackwall and —

 

 _Cullen_. Because _of course_ he would be at the Inquisitor’s side, ready to take any blow aimed at her on his own shield. Fear for him seized Killeen so strongly she could hardly breathe for a moment, her whole body rigid.

 

“Come closer, Queen of Ferelden,” the Inquisitor said. “You have my word, none of my people will raise a sword or staff against you. And … I think we have things to discuss more privately than at the top of our voices.”

 

The Queen nodded. The circles around her parted a little, and she nudged her horse forward, until it was at the foot of the steps.

 

Lady Trevelyan walked down to meet her, alone, stopping before the bottom of the stairs, so she was level with the mounted Queen. In the shifting shadows of the torches, for a moment they seemed as alike as sisters: both slim, both fair, both with expressions that could have been carved from ice.

 

Then, in the next flicker of the torchlight, Killeen could not imagine how she’d even for a moment thought they looked alike.

 

“I see you’ve brought half of Ferelden to visit me,” the Inquisitor said. Although Killeen could hear every word, as clearly as a pebble dropped in a still pool, she had the odd impression that Lady Trevelyan spoke quietly, and when Anora answered, she too seemed to speak softly — but utterly audibly, even to Killeen, on the other side of the courtyard.

 

“More than half,” Anora said.

 

“What did you tell them?”

 

“That you were scheming with Celene to return Ferelden to Orlesian rule.”

 

The Inquisitor snorted. “You _own_ half of Orlais, by my reckoning. How do they think the Empress will raise an army, with nothing to pay them and nothing to feed them?”

 

Anora shrugged slightly. “Fears are easy to spark. Fearful men don’t notice details.”

 

“So they have no idea you’re here for Alistair Theirin,” the Inquisitor said.

 

“I’m not a fool. Half would desert on the instant to join him.”

 

Killeen saw a flicker of movement run through the Ferelden knights, and realised that they, too, could hear every word spoken between the two women. _Dorian_ , she thought. _Dorian._

_Maker fuck me blind, the Inquisitor_ did _have a plan._

 

“And the Venatori?” the Inquisitor asked.

 

“Are useful. I hold their leash.”

 

“As they hold yours. They’re here because I killed their God, your Majesty. After you’ve used them to get what you want, the death of the rightful King of Ferelden, they’ll use _you_ to get what _they_ want — which is war. Endless war, weakening Ferelden, Orlais, Antiva … until the Imperium rises again.”

 

“Ferelden will win such a war,” Anora said.

 

“The Ferelden people might not consider themselves the victors, as they bury their children beneath the soil of fields trampled flat by armies and watered with Ferelden blood.”

 

“The people will believe what I tell them to believe,” Anora said. “Enough. You promised me the Bastard. Where is he?”

 

“Oh, now, sweetheart, hold your horses — ah, _horse._ ” Alistair walked down the stairs from the shadows to join the two women. He was bareheaded, and had taken off his armour, Killeen saw. _Going to his death not as Second of the Skyhold Guard, but as a man._

_As himself._

“You don’t mind me calling you sweetheart, do you?” he said cheerfully. “After all, we were once nearly almost possibly engaged to be married. Ah, happy memories. We could have been utterly miserable together — at least, until you knifed me in my sleep. How are you planning to do it, by the way? Just out of curiosity. Hanging? Beheading? Both might be a bit difficult, but I’m sure it could be managed.”

 

Anora gazed at him with an avid glitter in her eyes. “Here and now, with my own hand,” she said, and drew a knife from her belt.

 

“No!” a woman shouted.

 

As Anora’s arm lifted, Alistair was suddenly encased in the blue glow of a shield spell — a good one, Killeen noted with the professional appreciation of someone who’d depended on such spells for her life on more than one occasion.

 

The Inquisitor hadn’t moved. Dorian was presumably occupied with his amplification spell.  _Then who?_

Grand Enchanter Fiona stood on the battlement by the mages’ new tower, high above the courtyard, her robes whipping in the wind, her staff raised. “You will not hurt him!” she cried. “You will not take him! I forbid it!”

 

Venatori spell-binders and mages raised their hands. The wind whipping around Fiona gusted, ebbed, and then slammed into her. She swayed, tottered — lost her balance.

 

 

Landed at the foot of the wall, a crumpled heap of fabric in the icy mud.

 

Killeen’s sword was in her hand, and she was not the only one. All around swords came ringing free, shields locked to shoulders. Anora began to back her horse toward her own forces, as those forces raised their shields and closed ranks.

 

“Hold!” the Inquisitor shouted, and then Cullen’s voice was added to her own, “Hold! Soldiers of the Inquisition, _hold where you are!_ _”_  

 

The courtyard stilled to precarious, silent balance. Anora kicked her curvetting horse into submission, wrenched its head around and spurred it straight at Alistair as he stood at the foot of the stairs.

 

A white streak shot across the courtyard, almost under the hooves of Anora’s horse, and immediately behind it —

 

 _Maker_ _’s fucking foreskin._ Of course _it_ _’s Fel._

Killeen shoved her way through the soldiers in front of her, fast and brutal, as Anora’s horse reared and kicked and barely missed Fel’s head — reached the courtyard as the girl caught up Ser Calenhad and backed away from the rearing horse, clutching her cat to her chest — was still too far away as the hooves came down —

 

Alistair tackled Fel out of the way, took a blow to the shoulder from a steel-shod hoof that made the blue shield spell still clinging to him shimmer and shudder, hoisted her up and flung himself for the safety of the wall.

 

 _The spell_ still _clinging to him_ _… Maker’s balls, Fiona’s still alive, still holding that spell in place!_

 

Killeen darted around the side of the courtyard to them as spells and counterspells began to fly back and forth between the Venatori and the Inquisition’s mages. The Inquisition soldiers were holding their positions and so, for some reason, were the Ferelden knights.  “Fel,” Killeen panted, seizing her from Alistair’s arms.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Ser Calenhad just _ran_ —”

 

“Fel, the lady who fell off the wall, she needs you. Come on!” She hoisted Fel to her hip and ran around the edge of the courtyard, pressing the girl’s head to her shoulder for whatever protection that might provide against any stray bolt of mage-fire. She dropped to her knees, gut aching with effort, beside Fiona. The Grand Enchanter lay utterly still apart from the flutter of her robes in the breeze. “Help her, Fel.  Do what — whatever it is you do.”

 

Fel nodded, and knelt down beside Fiona. She laid her hands on the mage and they began to glow green. “Get better!” she said.

 

A lash of lightning flicked towards them and Killeen flung her arms over the both of them, ducking her head in anticipation of the blow across her back.

 

A warm body there instead, a grunt from the rightful King of Ferelden as the impact stripped away the last of Fiona’s spell.

 

The old mage opened her eyes, raised her hand, and restored it.

 

Alistair captured that raised hand in both his. “Grand Enchanter,” he said. “Not that I’m not grateful, but I’m a Guard, sort of. It’s _my_ duty to protect _you_ , not the other way around.”

“It will always be my duty to protect you,” she whispered. “A mother’s duty to protect her son knows no beginning and no end.” As Alistair gaped at her, she went on, “And this is my fault. Leliana told me that you had returned, thinking to be kind. I thought Anora … it’s been so long. I wrote, begging her to pardon you, to let you live out your life in your homeland. I was a fool.”

 

A buffet of magic Killeen couldn’t see but felt as a surging wave through her whole body doubled her up. She curled her arms around her stomach, feeling the muscles rigid as her body strove to protect the babe within. A fireball hit the wall, near enough to make them all flinch. “Alistair,” she panted, “we can’t stay here!”

 

He nodded, and picked Fiona up in his arms. Killeen gathered up Fel and together they ran to the marginally better protection of the stairs leading up to the gatehouse, dropping into shelter behind them.

 

After a moment to catch her breath, Killeen hoisted herself up to peer around the corner. The Venatori were losing — even a non-mage could tell that. Many of them lay motionless and the ones on their feet were casting defensively now. In their midst, Anora turned and wheeled her horse, shouting orders to her soldiers.

 

They did not respond. _Enscorcelled?_ Killeen wondered. No, she could see little movements, one reining his horse back more firmly, another shifting her shield. They could have answered their Queen’s call if they wanted to — but they did not.

 

_From the streets of Denerim to the great halls of the Arls_ _… Half would desert on the instant … I expected her to come, but not yet …_

“Maker fuck me blind,” she said. _I_ _’d bet every coin I ever earned or saw that the entire Ferelden army heard that little exchange by the steps._

_Some party trick, Dorian Pavus._

_The sort that can bring a Queen tumbling from her throne._

And then the fighting was done, and silence fell.

 

“Kill them!” Anora ordered her knights. “Kill them all!”

 

One put up his visor, and Killeen recognised the bluff, scarred face of Arl Gallagher Wulff. “When word came from the Nightingale that you had sold Ferelden to the Imperium — no, to the _dregs_ of the Imperium that even the Imperium won’t own, just to clutch the Throne a little longer, I did not believe it could be true. But when the woman who stood beside the Hero of Ferelden as she ended the Blight and saved every man, woman and child in my lands — and who serves now the Inquisitor who saved us all from a threat as great last year — promised me the chance to hear your _treachery_ from your own lips with my own ears, I undertook to trust her. And she was right. I am _King Alistair_ _’s_ to command.”

 

“King Alistair!” another shouted, raising his sword, and “King Alistair! King Alistair!” cried still more.

 

“Every soldier in your army heard exactly what Arl Wulff did, Anora,” the Inquisitor said. She smiled. “I promised you I would open the gates when you asked. I did not promise I would keep them closed if you did not.”

 

The Queen wheeled her horse, looking around desperately, as the chains began to clank and the gate-grill to rise. “You can’t do this!” she cried. “I am the _Queen_! I command you!”

 

“Then go to your people, _queen_ ,” the Inquisitor said. She raised her hand and brought it down and the great white horse jumped as if her palm had struck its rump, then bolted out under the gates in a clatter of hooves, Anora clinging to its back.

 

Killeen staggered forward. Along the bridge, she could see a great mass of people at the other end, too far to be distinct, flickering torches and the flash of swords. Anora saw them too, and desperately tried to halt her horse. She wrenched the reins brutally, dragging the charger’s head around, and he stumbled to one knee, throwing her up onto his shoulder, then heaved himself to his feet. Anora lashed his neck with the loose end of her reins and he reared at the very brink of the causeway —

 

For a second she managed to cling to the saddle and then she lost her grip —

 

Tumbled backwards over the edge of the bridge and into the dark.

 

 

 


	110. In The Tower - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, other things are resolved.

_17th Drakonis_

 

 

* * *

 

The great white horse screamed in panic as his hooves slipped on the wet stone of the bridge. With a mighty thrust of his hind legs, he flung himself forward, crashed down, thrashed his way to his feet again, then bolted across the causeway. Killeen saw torches scatter before him as he pounded through the army and away into the night.

 

 _Hopefully he_ _’ll run himself to exhaustion before he does himself any real damage._ She turned back to the courtyard to see all the Ferelden knights kneeling now, heads bare, in front of a bewildered looking Alistair who sat in the mud with Fiona — _his mother_ , Killeen remembered — cradled in his arms.

 

Fel squirmed through the crowd and ran over to her, Ser Calenhad in her arms. “Kill! He’s the King! Did you know?”

 

“Sort of,” Killeen said.

 

“His father’s father’s father’s … a lot of fathers ago, was Ser Calenhad. The person one.” She rubbed the cat’s ears. “That’s probably why Ser Calenhad ran to save him.”

 

“It could be,” Killeen said noncommittally.  It seemed unlikely, but then, stranger things had certainly happened than a cat being not just a namesake but some sort of embodiment of the Silver Knight. 

 

Across the courtyard, Cullen was beside the Inquisitor, head stooped to hear her orders. _Alive, unharmed_ _…_ A wave of relief took Killeen’s breath away, and she bent over, hands on knees. _Too many stairs. I_ _’m not as young as I used to be._ When she could speak again, she said, “Fel, Fiona …”

 

“She’ll get better. She’s really really tired though. She’s pretty old.”

 

“So long as she’ll get better,” Killeen said. She managed to straighten. Cullen looked up and she raised her hand to attract his attention. He saw her, saw Fel, and smiled.

 

She wanted the warm comfort of his arms around her so acutely it was almost pain, a great surging wave of longing for shelter, for safety, for quiet and peace and security, but the Inquisitor would need him, with a suddenly-leaderless no-long-entirely-hostile army right outside their gates and changing allegiances on a knife’s-edge balance inside them.

 

 _There_ _’s probably something I should be doing about that, too_.

 

If there was, she couldn’t bring it to mind, couldn’t think of anything at all but getting back to their tower, closing all the doors behind her and crawling into her bed to burrow under the covers like an animal in its den.

 

“Stanton and Thomas?” she asked Fel.

 

“With Mia,” the girl said.

 

That was up two flights of stairs from here. Killeen thought of all the stairways between where she stood and the warm comfort of her bed, added two more and came up with _impossible_. “Go and check they’re all right, and come back and tell me,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”

 

She leaned on the wall, riding out another swell of inchoate yearning that seemed to fill her whole body, as if every muscle and nerve and sinew separately and together were saying _home, warm, safe, now, now, now_ _…_ It left her dazed and breathless, and when Fel returned to confirm that everyone was safe and well, Killeen could only nod a response and turn toward the long climb home.

 

“Are you all right, Kill?” Fel asked, tagging after her.

 

Killeen nodded again. “Fine,” she managed to pant, stopping to lean her hands on her knees for a moment. “Tired. Just want to lie down.”

 

It took an absurdly long time, even when Fel wormed her way under Killeen’s arm and tried her best to take some of Killeen’s weight. The strange, urgent surges kept washing through her, and she was forced to stop each time, as if her neither her body nor her mind could focus on the mundane task of putting one foot in front of the other while they were happening.  The world narrowed down to the steps in front of her, to the harsh gasps of her breath, to her whole body tightening and straining as if she were trying to lift something beyond her strength, but directed inward, pulling down and in. When the door to their tower was suddenly in front of her, she was surprised.

 

She pushed it open and staggered through, fetching up against the table.

 

“I’ll get Ser Bear,” Fel said.

 

Killeen nodded, bracing her hands on the edge of the table and trying to find an angle to lean at that would relieve the pressure in her belly and back. She wanted Cullen. She wanted her bed. She wanted them both very much indeed. Beyond that, she didn’t know and didn’t care if the rest of the castle was coming down around her ears.

 

Shucking her mail coat, she let it drop to the floor and stumbled to the stairs. _Three more flights. Three more flights._ Half way up the first another insistent undertow seized her and she went to her hands and knees, finished the flight crawling. _Bed. Bed_. It was all she could think through the swelling waves that came closer together now, as if her whole body was gathering itself up for some purpose completely separate from the simple, mundane task of climbing stairs. At the foot of the last, steep flight she realised she had lost control of her bladder and her breeches were soaked. She stripped them off, having to pause when another mighty tide flooded through her.

 

She had her hands on the treads of the last flight, the last obstacle between her and her goal, panting and gasping and waiting for her body to begin to obey her again, when there were running footsteps behind her and Cullen was, finally, there.

 

“Killeen!” His arms were around her and she burrowed against his chest.

 

He tried to lift her down from the stairs.

 

Killeen clung to the treads. “No! I want to go up.”

 

Cullen cupped her face. “My darling, tell me where it hurts.”

 

 _Hurts_ was the wrong word for what was happening to her, for the consuming sensations that left no room for anything but the instinct to get somewhere warm and safe where her body could give itself over to what was happening.  “I want my bed,” Killeen said stubbornly.

 

“Just be calm,” Cullen said, utterly calm himself, as he had been on that long-ago night when he’d worked the pump in Felter’s Square, cupped water in his gauntleted hand and trickled it over her ruined face. _It missed your eye_ , he’d said, exactly as if he’d been remarking on the quality of the ale in a tavern. _It missed your eye._ “Fel. Fel!”

 

Killeen grabbed the shoulder-strap of his cuirass. “I want my bed!”

 

“I know,” Cullen said. “Fel —” he hesitated. “Where is she hurt? Is the baby …?”

 

“She’s not,” Fel said. “She’s bright and strong. So is the baby.”

 

“Killeen, tell me what’s wrong,” Cullen said.

 

“ _Bed_!” she said, then could say nothing more as another surge overtook her, blotting out everything but the arms around her, the shoulder she clung to until her fingers ached. She panted and gasped against Cullen’s chest, heaving and straining against a great weight, one which _would_ move if she could push hard enough against it, one which _had_ to move …

 

“All right,” Cullen said, and picked her up in his arms. He carried her carefully up the stairs and set her on the bed and Killeen curled up, still hanging on to his arm as if to life itself. “Better?”

 

She grunted. _Lift, push, heave_ _…_ it was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life.

 

“Fel, what’s wrong, can you tell what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Fel said interestedly. “She’s having the baby, that’s all.”

 

“But it’s too …” And then he sounded far from calm. “Maker’s breath! Fel, get the midwife! Run!”

 

A space of silence, then, no sound but her own harsh breathing, animal grunts of effort with every overwhelming wave of _heave, strain, push_ , Cullen’s hand rubbing her back.

 

“It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “Hold on, love. The midwife will know what to do.”

 

The midwife’s opinions were completely irrelevant to Killeen, and _holding on_ was not a useful instruction. A gathering sense of inevitability told her that what was happening was happening, and it was going to happen whether anyone else liked it or not.  Distantly, she knew she should be frightened, for her son if not for herself — it was months too early — but there was no room for fear in the face of her body’s utter certainty, no room for anything but the need to _push, push, push_ …

 

Fel’s head appeared over the top of the stairs. “She’s coming,” she said. “As fast as she can.”

 

“Maker’s _balls_ ,” Cullen said, running his fingers through his hair. “Fel — the baby, he’s too early — is there anything — do you know how to stop it?”

 

Fel came to the bed and leaned past him to put her hands on Killeen’s stomach. “I think it would hurt them if I did.”

 

Killeen didn’t care. Another surge took her, the most powerful yet, everything in her body driving down and together —

 

“You tell her to push, then look between her legs and say _Not long now,_ ” Fel said helpfully to Cullen.

 

“Have you seen babies born?” Cullen asked.

 

“Twice,” Fel said. “That’s what the midwives did. Push, Kill! Not long now!”

 

“Spread your legs and let me see,” Cullen said to Killeen. None of the words made any sense to her, nothing made any sense except the waves sweeping over her, her whole body concentrating on one single task —

 

He rolled her over onto her back and put his hands on her knees, parting them. “Killeen,” he said. “I think I see — I see his head, my love, I see the top of his head.”

 

And then pain, for the first time something that she sensed and understood as pain, as if she was being split apart from the inside, ripped in two and there was nothing to do but bear it and push through it and _push, push push_ …

 

The pain lessened, a sudden strange sensation between her legs —

 

A thin cry.

 

“Oh, my darling,” Cullen said breathlessly. “My darling.”

 

“You did it, Kill!” Fel said. “You did it! It’s born!”

 

“Fel, is she all right?” Cullen pleaded. “Is she — ?”

 

“Yes!” Fel said happily. 

 

Killeen’s whole body ached, not just from the effort but a giant yearning emptiness that could only be satisfied by her child in her arms and had to be satisfied _right now_. “Let me see him,” she said urgently. “Let me see, let me see —”

 

Cullen lifted the baby gently, the cord still trailing from navel to between Killeen’s legs. “She’s so beautiful,” he said softly, and laid her in Killeen’s arms, settling beside her with his arms around them both.

 

_She?_

 

Killeen gazed down at the little girl squirming in her arms, streaked with blood and gunk, tinier and more perfect than she could ever have imagined a human being to be. “Of course she is,” she said. “She’s _your_ daughter. Of course she’s beautiful.”

 

Cullen brushed the baby’s cheek with one shaking finger. “Our daughter,” he said, voice catching.

 

The midwife arrived, panting from the climb, in time to cut the cord and deal with the afterbirth, while Killeen put her daughter to her breast for the first time and watched in amazement as the tiny person who’d grown inside her body was nourished _by_ her body. There was a certain amount of fussing, which Killeen ignored, and a request from the midwife to wash and examine the baby, and wash and examine Killeen, both which Killeen allowed so long as it didn’t involve her daughter leaving her arms.  Somewhere beyond anything she cared about, she was vaguely aware that she hurt all over, that there was a throbbing pain between her legs that promised to make chairs uncomfortable tomorrow and probably for weeks to come, but it didn’t matter even slightly.

 

Finally they were left alone again.

 

Cullen finished adding more wood to the fire and tucked the furs more securely around Killeen and their daughter. “You’ll have to put her down eventually,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

 

“Why?” Killeen said.

 

“Because I’d quite like to hold her at some point,” he said reasonably. “You can, you know. The midwife said she’s fine and healthy and the size she should be. That you must have counted wrong. Here, love, give her to me. You’re exhausted.”

 

Reluctantly, Killeen yielded the baby to him, although once the little girl was cradled against his shoulder, held securely by his long, clever hands, she couldn’t imagine why she’d hesitated. _She belongs there_ , she thought. She leaned her own head against Cullen’s chest, and rested her hand on their daughter’s back. _I belong here._

“What are we going to name her?” Cullen asked her softly.

 

“Colleen?” Killeen suggested, and felt his laugh rumble beneath her ear.

 

There were voices downstairs, now. Killeen guessed the midwife’s sprint the length of Skyhold had attracted some attention. _Also, Fel likely told everyone she passed_. “If anyone comes up here,” she said to Cullen, “I will split them from gullet to gizzard.”

 

“I know how you feel,” Mia said from the stairs, “but I’ve someone here I think you _will_ be pleased to see.”

 

Killeen turned to see Cullen’s sister cradling Thomas in her arms. She smiled, and beckoned her over.

 

Mia set Thomas carefully down in Killeen’s lap. “He’s fed and changed and ready to sleep,” she said.

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said, shifting so she could see both her children at once. Gratitude prompted her to offer, unenthusiastically, “Do you want to see her?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Mia said with a smile. “Felandaris wants to come up, as well.”

 

“She can,” Killeen said. “No-one else.”

 

“I’ll tell them,” Mia said, and slipped quietly away. A moment later Fel crept up the stairs and tiptoed over to the bed.

 

Killeen considered the logistics, and then shifted Thomas to lie between Cullen and herself, and held out an arm to Fel. “Gently, Fel, I’m aching.”

 

Fel crawled onto the bed and into the circle of Killeen’s arm. “I’d make you better but the midwife said not to meddle with what I didn’t understand.”

 

“Probably wise,” Killeen said on a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

“Does she have a name?”

 

“Evelyn?” Cullen suggested. “She’d never have been born if not for Lady Trevelyan.”

 

“Every second girl in Thedas will be called Evelyn this year,” Killeen said. “And every second boy, Trevelyan.” She considered. “Vivienne? Because … I never told you, but I think … something was wrong, when we reached Orlais. I think if Vivienne hadn’t … _done_ something …”

 

“No,” Fel said firmly.

 

“I know she wasn’t very nice to you,” Killeen said. “But she’s not terrible, Fel.”

 

“That’s not why,” Fel said. “The baby should have her _own_ name. Something special, like Felandaris! I mean, not Felandaris, that’s _my_ name, but —”

 

Killeen closed her eyes and listened to ever-more outrageous suggestions. Somewhere between _Foxemity_ and _Nalhendarana_ she drifted into sleep.

 

The baby’s grumbling woke her and she opened her eyes on the thin light of a rainy dawn. “Is she hungry?”

 

“If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll always be hungry,” Cullen said. It took a little managing, with Thomas sleeping between them and Fel curled up against Killeen’s back, but they managed to get the baby in Killeen’s arms without waking the other children. The baby rootled enthusiastically at Killeen’s breast. “You didn’t name her anything ridiculous while I was asleep, did you?” she asked.

 

Cullen smiled. “Fel was _very_ keen on Sassaramissama.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Killeen said firmly.

 

“Hello?” a voice called from the stairs. “I know you’ve threatened to eviscerate visitors, lovely lady Lieutenant, but I come bearing gifts. And breakfast.”

 

Killeen’s stomach gave a growl of enthusiastic welcome and Cullen laughed. “Come up, Dorian. I think your offerings are acceptable.”

 

The mage emerged onto the roof, carrying a tray laden with tea, rolls, butter, half-a-dozen jams. He set it down carefully on the foot of the bed, and produced a jar from his robes with a flourish. “Aden advises that this will work wonders on those bits of you rendered somewhat tender by last night’s events. And that it’s quite safe for the baby for you to use.”

 

“Thank you,” Killeen said. The baby came loose from her nipple with a pop and she lifted her carefully, patting her back as she’d seen Aveline do.

 

“Blackwall’s been up all night finishing the cradle in a hurry. It’s downstairs, with Bull. I thought unexpected Qunari might be a little much for a newborn.  Josephine has apparently been knitting sweet little hats and socks ever since you told her the news, so she’s the only one of us not caught out.” He produced an example from another fold of his robe, popped the tiny sock on one finger and waggled it at the baby. “Goodness, are they supposed to belch like that? She sounds like Varric.”

 

“I’m found out,” Killeen said. “I’m sorry, Cullen, but my feelings ran away with me … I have to confess, the real father is a dwarf. You know what a weakness I have for a man with a knack for structural engineering.”

 

He grinned. “At least there’s hope she’ll grow up to have a profitable career, then, not just hitting things with sharp bits of metal like the two of us.” He nudged her. “Let Dorian hold her, love, he’s dying to and he’s too polite to ask.”

 

“Oh,” Killeen said. “All right. Carefully, Dorian! You have to —”

 

“Keep my hand under her head, I know,” Dorian said, taking the baby with unexpected deftness.  He settled her in the crook of his arm and smiled down at her. “Natalis salutem, dulcis ursula.”

 

“Is that a spell?” Killeen asked suspiciously.

 

Dorian laughed. “It means _happy birthday_ ,” he explained. “Happy birthday, sweet little bear.”

 

 


	111. In The Chapel - Killeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all good things ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

 

Killeen tugged her jacket straight, made an effort to adjust the sash which crossed her chest and circled her waist, studied the result in the mirror and gave up.

_I will never in all my life get used to frippery_.

 

Strong arms slipped around her waist from behind and Cullen pressed his lips to her neck. “You look perfect.”

 

“I don’t know why my normal uniform isn’t suitable,” Killeen grumbled. She raised a hand to her hair. “Look. More grey!”

 

“It suits you. And your normal uniform isn’t suitable because it’s a special occasion, and you have to look fancy,” Cullen said, for perhaps the eighteenth time. His hands pressed flat against the thick broadcloth buttoned over her stomach and he drew her closer to him, mouth tracing its way down to her collar. “Like me.”

 

“Yes, but you look _good_ in dress uniform,” Killeen pointed out, watching his fingers slip beneath the overlapping closure of her jacket and flick one of the fastenings free. “Cullen … if you keep doing that we’ll be late.”

 

“They’ll wait for us.” Another clasp came loose. “They can’t start without us. And you look good, too. Better than me. At least yours isn’t too tight.”

 

“Yes, but —” His other hand slid down to between her legs and her resolution weakened as tingling heat spread from his touch and loosed her limbs.  “Mother Giselle is getting too old to have to stand for long. We should — oh — we —”

 

He raised his head, and she saw his reflection smile. “You’re so beautiful.” Her jacket was open now, his hand on her breast, thumb flicking her nipple through the fabric of her shirt, his other hand working the seam of her trousers against her.

 

Killeen arched beneath his touch, moaning, rocking into his fingers. “You have — oh, Cullen — you have no self-control.”

 

“Oh, _I_ have no self control?” Cullen said. “If _I_ had no self-control, then when you dropped that spoon this morning and bent over to pick it up, I would have taken you then and there on the dining table, right in front of the children.”

 

Killeen could feel him hard against her, and in the mirror she could see the flush rising in his cheeks as he watched her watching him watch her … a circle of reflection and amplification that made the heat within her rise higher and higher until she was gasping and panting.

 

She tore at the buckle of her belt, seized his wrist and, with his enthusiastic co-operation, shoved his hand inside the trousers of her dress-uniform. He ground harder against her rump as she braced one foot against the wall, reaching up to hold the back of his neck and steady herself as his fingers, _oh Maker yes_ , circled and pressed and rubbed and his breath was hot against her ear as they both watched his hand moving, watched her mouth open as she moaned his name, _Cullen please yes there there yes_ and everything tightened inside her and then —

 

Her knees buckled as fire swept through her. Cullen held her up as she shook and moaned and cried his name and then turned her around and pressed her against the wall, yanking her trousers further down and freeing himself from his own. Killeen hooked her leg around him as he drove into her, clutching his shoulders and then wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers buried in his hair, holding on for dear life as each thrust sent fresh ripples of golden heat through her whole body.

 

“Harder,” she whispered, felt him shiver, gasped as her shoulders were driven against the wall by his next thrust. “Yes, Cullen, yes, please, yes —”

 

“ _Killeen!_ ” he cried hoarsely, and she felt him go over the edge, face pressed to her neck — fell with him, riding the waves of sweet release as they sank trembling to the floor.

 

“Now we’re really late,” she whispered after a moment.

 

“I don’t care,” Cullen said.

 

“Me neither,” Killeen admitted. “But we should go.”

 

He groaned softly. “A minute,” he said. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

It was true. Although the years had been kind to both of them, they were neither of them as young as they used to be, and never would be again: as young as the girl without the experience or imagination to be really, truly afraid of what could happen if the man on the other side of a wooden door dropped his lamp into a barrel of oil; as young as the man who thought he’d already lost everything there was to lose.

 

Never again as young as the Templar who’d reached out for an anchor against the undertow of lyrium without truly knowing what it was he tried to grasp; never again as young as the woman who took his hands and held them without knowing just what she was pitting her strength against.

 

Not as young as the two people who’d taken ship from Kirkwall when the worst threat Thedas faced was a war between mages and Templars — not even as young as the people who’d seen Corypheus fall.

 

“Then you shouldn’t ravish me against the wall,” Killeen pointed out, smiling.

 

“I’ll always be young enough to ravish you against the wall,” Cullen said firmly. “Give me a little while, and I’ll prove I’m young enough to ravish you on the bed, as well.”

 

“Promises, promises,” Killeen said. She untangled herself from him and stood, holding her hand out to him. “Come on. We need to clean up and get down there. Everyone will be waiting.”

 

He groaned again, but took her hand and let her pull him to his feet.

 

Everyone _was_ waiting for them when they reached the chapel. Mia and her husband, both with the respectable solidity befitting the heads of a family through whose fingers all of Skyhold’s grain trade ran; Mother Giselle, still sharply upright despite the grey in her hair and the wrinkles around her eyes; Rylen, with his arm around Anandra’s shoulders; King Alistair, watching his heavily pregnant wife Queen Cassandra with a mixture of adoration and apprehension.

 

A dark-haired toddler ran shrieking past Killeen’s feet as she entered the chapel and she scooped him up. “Not so fast, Tauro,” she said, and deposited him back in the Inquisitor’s arms.

 

“Thank you,” Lady Trevelyan said fervently. “He’s like a greased nug.”

 

“They all are, at that age,” Killeen said. She watched Evelyn bear her son away, smiling at the memory of Cullen’s expression when she’d explained the whole situation to him. _Well, Cullen, when a woman and a woman love each other very much, and they have a best friend who loves a man very much_ _…_

Glancing at Lady Montilyet’s waistline, Killeen judged it would not be long before they’d all be offering Dorian another round of congratulations on his impending fatherhood.

 

Her own two were past the running and shrieking stage, and standing steadfastly — give or take a little fidgeting — beside Mother Giselle. Ursula had managed to acquire a large smudge on one cheek between the tower and the chapel. Killeen caught her eye, rubbed at her own cheek, and left Ursula pawing at the smear as she slipped through the side door.

 

Fel was sitting on one of the benches that ran down the corridor, picking at her nails. Killeen sat beside her. “Nervous?  


“I _wasn_ _’t_ , until I had to sit here waiting for you and Ser Bear,” Fel said pointedly.

 

Killeen grinned at her. “If you’re lucky, you’ll still be making people wait in ten years’ time.” She straightened the wreath of flowers around Fel’s head. “Last chance to back out, sweetling.”

 

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Fel said, and flounced to her feet.

 

Her white dress with its red sash suited her golden hair and pale skin. With the white flowers woven through her hair, she looked like an illustration from a book — _probably one of Varric_ _’s,_ Killeen thought.

 

_One where the innocent virginal heroine knees the villain_ _’s balls up into the roof of his mouth in chapter six_.

 

She stood as well. “If you’re really sure …”

 

“Maker’s balls!” Fel said. “It’s been _years_! Yes, I’m sure!”

 

“Good,” Killeen said. She held out her hand. “Come on, then.”

 

Cullen met them at the door. “Ready, cubling?”

 

“Ready,” Fel said.

 

Between them, she walked steadily up the aisle to the statue of Andraste where Mother Giselle waited. Killeen glanced from one side to the other. Anandra was no doubt relived not to have to stand up in public with her increasingly infamous mage-daughter; Alistair was constrained by the difficulties attendant on the King of Ferelden with three legitimate children publicly associating himself with his illegitimate daughter.

 

Killeen drew a little closer to Fel, automatically circling her shoulders with one arm, giving a steady glare at everyone around.

 

“My love,” Cullen whispered to her as they reached Mother Giselle, “you can take your hand off your sword. Truly.”

 

Fel rolled her eyes, and shot a look at Killeen that she was well familiar with from the past decade: _I hate you, thank you_ , that look said. Killeen had seen it when she had enforced curfews and when she insisted _even mages have to do chores, Fel_ , had seen it when she’d refused Fiona’s suggestion that Fel go to study at the new Circle of Magi in Denerim and when she’d told her that she wouldn’t hear of a wedding without two year’s betrothal. Killeen smiled at her. _You_ _’re welcome, dear daughter of my heart._

 

And then Fel’s attention was utterly riveted elsewhere as Stanton came through the door. In deference to the occasion, he was out of armour, but his jacket was Seeker blue. _It suits him_. He was a fine-looking young man, Killeen had to admit, taller than Cullen although not so broad through the shoulders, and as he walked toward the altar, flanked by his parents, he looked at Fel as if she were the key to life itself.

 

The ceremony was the same as it always was. Killeen didn’t forget any of her required responses; King Alistair got to play a small role as the knight who’d first taken Stanton as a squire; Fel gave her answers in a low fierce tone as if defying anyone in Thedas or the Fade to argue with her.

 

Fel had been unable to choose between Thomas and Ursula, both equally dear to her, to carry her ring, and so Stanton had asked Ursula, as his youngest cousin, to carry _his_. Killeen was relieved to see that neither of the children had lost the thin gold bands, but she did not breathe a sigh of relief until both rings were securely on the appropriate fingers and Fel and Stanton were running very slowly toward the door, pretending to try and shelter from the petals the guests rained on their heads.

 

As Killeen watched, Cullen put his arm around her waist and took her hand in his, running his thumb over the thin silver ring that now rested next to her thick stone one. “Remember when _we_ stood here?”

 

“ _I_ do,” Killeen said. “I’m surprised _you_ do, though, given how hung-over you were.”

 

He chuckled. “It’s seared on my memory by agony. I did warn Stanton that if Varric suggested a game of Wicked Grace to distract him from his pre-wedding nerves, he should run very fast in the opposite direction. I was thinking of Fel, holding your ring.”

 

Killeen smiled. “She was so scared she’d drop it that she held it so tightly, when the time came she couldn’t open her fingers. I had to prise it free. That was a wedding night to remember. Fel in tears because she thought she’d ruined things for us and you groaning in bed with the pillow over your head.”

 

“I recall we made up for things the next morning,” Cullen said slyly against her neck. “Several times.” Killeen felt the flush of familiar heat. _Will I never have enough of this man?_

_Not possible._

She felt him smile, and he said, “I recall, too, that at least Varric taught me to tell that joke of yours properly.”

 

Killeen snorted. “For given definitions of _properly_ , perhaps.”

 

“Three chantry sisters die,” he said. “And they find themselves before the Maker’s throne.”

 

“ _Four_ chantry sisters, Cullen, how many times do I have to tell you?”

 

“Four chantry sisters die, and they find themselves before the Maker’s throne. And he says to the first one, you’ve led a good and pure life, and you will spend eternity by my side, but first you must tell me, have you ever, ah, had any contact with a man’s private parts?”

 

“All right,” Killeen conceded. “Go on.”

 

“And the first one says, yes, but just with the tip of my little finger, and the Maker says —”

 

“ _Andraste_ says,” Killeen corrected.

 

“Andraste says,” Cullen said obediently, “that’s understandable, could happen to anyone. Just touch the holy candle that lit my pyre with the tip of that finger, and come stand by the Maker’s side. So she does. The second sister comes forward, and the Maker asks her the same question, and she says, well, yes, but just with my hand. And Andraste says, well, that’s all right, just hold the holy candle in your hand, and then come stand by the Maker’s side. How am I doing?”

 

“Not bad so far,” Killeen admitted.

 

“Then the third sister comes forward, but before the Maker can open his mouth, the last sister shoulders her aside and says, if you think I’m going to kiss that after it’s been, um, been … somewhere it shouldn’t be —”

 

“ _Cullen_.” Killeen turned, linked her hands behind his neck, and rested her forehead against his. “You are utterly hopeless. She _says_ , listen, lady, if you think _I_ _’m_ going to lick that after it’s been up _her_ arse, you’ve got another think coming.”

 

She was delighted to see him blush scarlet. “Yes,” he said, and cleared his throat. “That’s what she says.”

 

“Why was it up her arse?” Ursula asked with interest, making them both jump.

 

“Ah, um —” Cullen said a little desperately.

 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Killeen said firmly. Ursula’s lip stuck out and she glared at her mother.

 

“You _always_ say that!”

 

“And it’s always true,” Killeen said. “Now, did someone say something about breakfast?”

 

“Mama, Papa!” Thomas called, running toward them. “He _hit_ me!”

 

Killeen looked past him to see Alistair’s eldest son in pursuit, little fists clenched. “Hit him back,” she said. “You’re bigger.” She fended Thomas off, sending him back to the fray, and Ursula went with him. Killeen grinned as her daughter barrelled into the Prince. _The heir to the Ferelden throne is about to learn a painful lesson about Rutherford family unity._

 

“We should, ah. Break that up,” Cullen said.

 

“In a minute,” Killeen said. “Let her get one good blow in first. Oh, look at that! She’s got a lovely swing.”

 

Royalty was lying on the floor, squalling, and adults were converging on the fray from all directions. “Killeen …” Cullen said.

 

“I know, I know.” She let him go and strode forward. “Get up, Alaric, you’re not hurt. No, Ursula, this is _not_ a good time to kick someone when they’re down. Because I say so, that’s why. Tauro! Put that down, it’s sharp, no I _don_ _’t_ care what Uncle Bull says! Now, who’s for the wedding breakfast, and who wants to play kick-about keep-away in the courtyard?”

 

Everyone, it turned out, and not just everyone under four foot tall. And that was how Killeen found herself, dress uniform caked with mud, dodging the King of Ferelden in her pursuit across the Skyhold courtyard of a bride with her skirts hiked up to her waist.

 

She was just about to hook the ball clear of Fel’s feet when strong arms closed around her waist and she was dumped unceremoniously to the ground.

 

“Let me go, you big oaf,” she said, squirming free of Cullen to see Fel slip past Ursula and send the ball through the goal. The bride raised her arms in the air and ran around in a circle hooting with triumph until her husband caught her up and kissed her soundly.

 

Killeen turned her head to look at Cullen as he lay sprawled on his back beside her. “I thought you were on _my_ side?”

 

Cullen grinned at her. Despite the threads of white at his temples, the deepening lines around his eyes, the arm flung out towards her was still muscular and firm, his warm brown eyes were still clear and bright. Time had only deepened the steady joy in them, and as far as she was concerned he was still, would forever be, the most beautiful man alive.

 

He rolled over, tangled his fingers in her hair, and drew her close for a kiss.  “Always,” he said. “Always, Killeen, my love, my heart, my own. I am always on your side.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: More than 300,000 words later it’s finally over! Well, not quite. There’s one more one-shot to come. In the meantime, if you’ve enjoyed this (and I’m presuming if you’re still here after 111 chapters you haven’t hated it) you might like to check out the work of Alison Adare at https://www.facebook.com/NewTwists


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